


Panacea

by arnediadglanduath



Series: Black Nebula [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angeal being cute, Angst, Enormous Emotional Baggage, Everyone Needs A Hug, Genesis as a Dad is probably awkward and weird, Hojo is still around: that's important, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Mentions of past mpreg, References to self harm/suicide, Tags Subject to Mutation, hurt/comfort?, kind of a kid fic but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arnediadglanduath/pseuds/arnediadglanduath
Summary: Panacea:In Greek mythology, it is a universal antidote that washes away all maladies and grants the drinker immortality, though the literal translation derives from’panakeia’; which means’cure-all.’Losing the love of your life is hard,  losing the love of your life and raising the child you made together is harder. Losing the love of your life and raising the child you made together in a post-miltarian dystopia is probably the literal definition of hell.





	1. Prologue

_Grief, you are the grey huntress;_

_with a bow of tragedy, and arrows of loss._

_Your garb is the dusky mantle of sorrow;_

_trailing crystalline teardrops like strings of pearls._

_Your footsteps mar our joys with devastation;_

_bringing whispers of sadness to our sunlit morrows._

_And you hunt us...in the glades of our existence..._

_...to slay us broken and weeping...under the eves of our regrets._

* * *

 

“Hey, _Dad?_ ”

Genesis woke with a snort. That wasn’t unusual, but it was unusual to find himself sitting in a room that was on the wrong side of _too pink_ with a poster of _Verdwurd and the Humming Hacking Virus Bros_ across from him. He was very open about music, but any band that could turn bacterium into symbolistic euphemisms for romance was just a little bit weird. He didn’t care if chickenpox was a type of herpes, it was just disgusting. Apparently, he had seen fit to fall asleep in a teenage girl’s room. Normally, many years ago, this would have been cause for extreme alarm. Thankfully, the teenager in question was under his custody; mostly because she was his kid. There were days he was very grateful for that, and there were days when he wanted to kick down all the walls because of it. Shifting his person in the fluffy magenta bean bag chair he had evidently decided to nod off on, the redhead blinked stupidly at the star-covered ceiling and tried to discern what time it was.

It was his day off, that much was certain.

Of course, the definition of a ‘day off’ when you were a parent differed greatly from that of the single and unattached person with no one to clean after but themselves. Thankfully, the person he occasionally had to clean after did a fair enough job of it herself. Occasionally, he missed the toddler days, but then he remembered exactly what a whole bowl of spaghetti looked like smeared across the kitchen floor and he was extremely happy with his current existence. That didn’t mean, however, that he spent his days off doing extracurricular things like skydiving and dancing until dawn. Looking at the unchanged reflection of himself in the mirror across from him, Genesis told himself firmly that it didn’t matter how old his body told itself it was; he was still forty-six. He might look and feel about twenty-four, but he was nearly fifty and he could not act like he’d just passed the legal drinking age. He had to set a good example even if he didn’t know what he was doing half of the time and the other half he was barely getting by.

“Dad, c’mon.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, the scarlet-haired man watched as the beads curtaining the entrance to his daughter’s room parted to reveal the aforementioned individual. Saoirse paused, one hand on the strap of her book bag as green eyes surveyed him sardonically for a moment before they promptly rolled. Genesis reflected dryly that if he’d rolled his eyes at Shikro he’d have been lucky to be able to peel himself off the dining room floor the next morning. He was, quite firmly, against hitting children simply because of his own memories of it being done to him. That didn’t stop him from wanting to scream every time his ‘little girl’ gave him some attitude. As a fifteen-year-old, she gave him quite a bit of attitude but he’d managed to keep his sanity hanging by a thread so far. Watching as she knelt to tuck her book bag into a cubby, Genesis yawned and then winced when his jaw cracked.

“Didn’t we have a discussion about privacy?” Saoirse said dryly.

Blinking, the former Commander made a face.

“We did” he replied hoarsely. “But we also had a discussion about cleaning up.” He gestured at the feminine disarray around him. “You know I love a little bit of spontaneity, but it looks like you had a brawl with a pink chocobo and then decided to go to school anyway.”

His daughter’s lips twitched furiously in a way that was so similar to someone else it made his chest ache a little bit before he pushed it down. Settling her expression into that of neutrality, Saoirse got to her feet once more and folded her arms.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you got any cleaning done in here either” she pointed out.

“I had to sit down to meditate upon the horror around me” Genesis replied firmly.

A scarlet brow winged upward.

“You fell asleep” was the dry response.

“I fainted.” A pale hand rose to cover smiling lips as emerald eyes crinkled at the edges. “The strain was too much for me.”

Seeming to give up all pretense of stubborness, the redhead before him laughed helplessly for a minute or so before regaining herself. As she did so, Genesis watched with a kind of fond affection. She was tall, for her age anyway, though he supposed that that shouldn’t surprise him. Her hair was long; he’d despaired of cutting it when he tried for her eighth birthday and she proceeded to throw a fit so massive his ears rang for three hours afterwards. Most of the time she let him style it and he tried not to think about how terrible he was at doing so initially when he stopped to consider the fact. He had several grade school pictures of her with lopsided pigtails that were entirely his fault. In terms of features, she looked more like him...which he supposed wasn’t to her benefit because he had a more angular bone structure than that of her other father.

Her cheeks, however, were high like his former partner’s...and her eyebrows were the same straight and severe shape. When it came to style, Genesis was sincerely proud that he had managed to sell blue jeans in a manner than appealed to her more than mini-skirts. He was fairly sure if his daughter left the house wearing booty shorts every day he would be a nervous wreck. The fact that he had worn booty shorts in his youth was irrelevant and somewhat regretful. As it was, he had a faint suspicion that her style proclivities were more ‘one-winged-angel-oriented’; even though he was also sure that Sephiroth would have murdered anyone who painted his room pink.

Saoirse liked pop music and dancing and make up and all the things people her age were supposed to like. But she also liked martial arts and math and Genesis was horrible at math. When forced to choose between math and magic he would always choose magic. He liked makeup too, but that was another thing he was too old to pull off legally anymore so he stuck with eyeliner when he was feeling particularly fierce and that was it. They had things in common...like a love for old classical films and probably too much popcorn. He had many memories of her sleeping on the bedroom floor when she didn’t want to sleep in her room. If he was feeling terribly self-confident, he could likely say he hadn’t done a heinous job when it came to parenting her.

The first years were hard, because he was grieving. Sometimes it felt like he was grieving constantly. Sephiroth’s death was a monumental blow to his psyche and an even greater blow to his self-esteem. He had no faith in his ability to parent alone and he needed the help he was given. By the time Saoirse was one, he was more involved in her life than he had been initially. He took the time to hold her, to talk to her, to pick things out for her that he thought she might like. In some ways, he was deeply regretful of his partial-abandonment of her so close to her birth because he was forced to start from scratch; forced to build their relationship with a bond that wasn’t quite as solid as most children might have with their parents by the time the first year rolled around. And it was hard...difficult… _agonizing_ at first because every time he looked at her Sephiroth was looking back at him out of her eyes.

They moved by the time his daughter turned two.

It took him a long time to find a place that he felt was suitable for them. Money wasn't an issue; Angeal had the company return his assets with interest soon after Shinra fell. If he really wanted to, he could retire and rest easily knowing that even if something happened to him his daughter, whatever partner she chose, his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren would have enough money to be very comfortable. No, it was the mere concept of leaving so much behind...of leaving so many memories behind...but he managed it. In the end, he moved out of HQ and into a loft apartment in a private sector of Midgar. It was a two floor, somewhat loft-esque space; with Saoirse's bedroom being on the main floor and his up a ladder in the kitchen to the bedroom and attached bathroom overhead. He’d gone for a minimalist design; most of the walls were whitewashed shiplap broken occasionally by a tile-covered accent wall. The color scheme was bright in nature; again, with an emphasis on white with solid-hue accents. The rent was reasonable; not cheap but fair and he didn’t have any problems with the other tenants, who kept mostly to themselves.

Genesis kept very little memorabilia from his time with SOLDIER or his time afterwards. Rapier-of course-went with them, as did his leather coats because he’d rather have his throat cut than leave them behind. But he left most of his military badges with Angeal, and the rest he donated. Regretfully, he had no pictures of Sephiroth, and the media that was established during the time when SOLDIER was active had nothing kind to say about him. Most of his achievements as a General, his press photos, and his ceremonies were buried beneath the acts he had committed before _he_ was committed, and then the mass-slaughter he’d partaken in just before his death. There were-quite sensibly-no pictures of him during that time...and so what little remained of the love of his life was simply a memory and nothing more. Initially, it hurt him...because the men who were present when he passed acknowledged that their view was fallible, but there wasn’t much they could do. HQ had been dismantled mere hours afterwards, and society was left scrambling to find a foothold in a suddenly legislature-bereft world. There was no time to spread the word about Sephiroth’s innocence, about what Shinra had done. And so what little of the man he adored fell to a dark memory with the rest of the world...fell to resentment and hatred.

He had to go through the newly-revised court-systems to get a pardon.

Three years after Saoirse’s birth, Genesis was called upon to appear before a judge and give reasoning for his ‘crimes against humanity.’ Mainly for sheltering what the world perceived as a madman. He was also called to give reasoning as to why he should remain the guardian of his child. He tried. He really tried. Genesis hired a lawyer, gathered all the evidence he could-which was basically nothing-and everyone who knew him and knew Sephiroth practically fell flat on their faces to give honest and relevant accounts. He bought a suit-a proper suit, nothing with tails or tassels or any sort of frippery-and he dressed his daughter up to the best degree that his very poorly female-oriented mind could dress her. Angeal showed up at his apartment three times a day to go over proceedings and Aerith moved in with him for a bit, just for emotional support. It was a testimony to how much people wanted to make things right that he had the amount of leverage that he did...it was likely the only reason he was allowed to be a father to Saoirse.

It was still a bloodbath.

When it was clear they couldn’t question his parenting, they made him seem like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. Sephiroth seduced him, so the courts made it out, made him father their child because it was the only thing that would make him stay, and that was what drove him to break him out. The silver-haired ex-Soldier dragged him all over the Northern Continent to keep him blind to his insanity while he was pregnant, used him to get what he wanted and then grew bored when their daughter was born. Practically in tears in the defendant’s seat; Genesis had to watch as hundreds of victims of his lover’s insanity stood up to speak against him even though they didn’t know a thing about him. There wasn’t a thing he could do...not a thing. Because despite the fact that Jenova had used the younger man, the people who spoke had still lost loved ones; had lost fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and babes. Sephiroth’s dualized gender only alienated the jury more...only made them see him as further strange and further deserving of criticism. When his medical reports were made public for them, he was privy to the sight of their faces twisting in disgust and disbelief. And he knew then...he knew that Sephiroth would never be seen as a person who had fell victim to something so powerful it had nearly destroyed the Planet so long ago. The perpetrator of such power was invisible, they couldn’t see her, but they could see him.

...Someone, _someone_ always had to take the fall.

Genesis was pardoned, but he was pardoned on the basis of manipulation, of duress. The courthouse was located on the outskirts of the Plate, and by the time he’d managed to step numbly through the throng of reporters and screaming populace, he nearly collapsed. Because he had not done his lover justice. He had not done his daughter justice...she would grow up with the people around her telling her that her father was a monster. The day after the whole of it ended, Angeal signed him up for therapy. Mostly because he tried to hang himself from the roofbeams in his apartment. The guilt he felt was staggering, the guilt he felt for _surviving_ was staggering. Because he got to live a lie...and his lover got to be forgotten...and if he was not forgotten, he was despised. When he mustered the courage to go out several weeks later, people looked at him with pity. Like he was this little...small thing who had been dragged along in the wake of someone terrible when he was _not_ and he _had not_.

It took him a long time to get over it.

Despite all of it...he had good memories. Sweet memories, really. Memories of sitting with Saoirse while they watched the hydropower system be erected while eating too much taffy. Aerith was forced to move in with Zack, who was far too happy about it. Very recently, Zack had proposed, and Genesis had no idea how to feel about it. The church Aerith had tended her flowers in for so long was refurbished as a memorial building for the victims of Shinra’s tyranny. It was the only building left standing in what was once the slums, and he was glad to see his sister reestablished somewhere else...somewhere with more sunlight...more hope. Genesis had memories of pillow forts and sticky fingers and terrible cartoon series that he fell asleep in the middle of and woke up to with Saoirse sprawled across his lap with chocolate all over her face. He had memories of flying a kite off the veranda of Gillian’s house just outside the city and getting it stuck in a tree. There were recollections, recollections of toy stores and picking out dresses that made Aerith wrinkle her face in disgust and Angeal being a bit too manly and coming to a birthday party with rugby cleats and a baseball bat only to have his daughter love them all the same.

Genesis had memories of sitting up at night, of checking for the ‘monster’ under the bed only to find that it was a wayward moogle. He had psychic freeze-frames of his daughter hugging Lazard when he came by to drop off Genesis’ birth certificate from the Archives; of Lazard looking like he didn’t know what to do...of the guilt in his eyes and the way that he hugged her back...full of regret, of fragility and the barest hint of grief. There was the first time Tseng came to call once they got settled, the way he obviously had no great love for children but was willing to try...because of Sephiroth. So many people were trying because of Sephiroth and it was that little bit of honest goodness that gave Genesis the strength to move forward. And it broke him a little bit...that goodness. The reality that these people were only stepping forward once it was all over and done with. He knew that for some that wasn’t true; that Angeal, Gillian, Zack, and Aerith had always been there...had always tried. But the price, in his opinion, shouldn’t have been so high...the sacrifice shouldn’t have to be so great.

By the time he was remotely comfortable in public, Saoirse was gearing up for kindergarten and he was scared for her. He picked a private school; a facility that provided education up to eighth grade with good reviews, a good reputation, and a zero-tolerance stance on bullying. It was insanely expensive but it was small, it would introduce her to things slowly and that was what he wanted for her. On her first day he dressed her in a blue jumper, got her pigtails crooked, drove her to school, kissed her cheek and then cried the whole way back home. He spent the enitre day and the next day by the phone wringing his hands until Angeal called him and invited him to a deli for lunch. He brought his cell phone with him and checked it obsessively while his childhood friend ordered sandwiches in a weary kind of way and then walked him to a table to sit down. Once they did, the dark-haired former first leaned forward, looked him squarely in the eye, and opened his mouth.

_”Maybe you should think about getting a job.”_

Sitting in a booth eating a sandwich with a kind of single-minded ferocity, Genesis realized he was probably right. The problem was that he didn’t know what he wanted to do, and if he did know, he didn’t know if he was qualified to do it. He and Angeal chatted for a while longer and then he wandered home feeling full and fully lost. The redhead picked up Saoirse and she regaled him with stories of finger painting and nursery rhymes, gave him a picture to put on the fridge, and then bounced off to her room after dinner and dishes were done. He ended up volunteering as night ranger on the city outskirts. Mostly because he knew he wouldn’t be holed up in an office somewhere and it was far away from HQ. Headquarters had been repurposed as a communications building for various government sectors. The system wasn’t really definable as anything solid in terms of legislature, but taxes were fair, food wasn’t scarce and people weren’t starving. To his credit, Lazard had headed a good majority of the reform with Angeal’s help, but SOLDIER didn’t exist anymore, and once everything was established the dark-haired former First took a job in the police force. Genesis was beginning to suspect he had a girlfriend, because he’d started getting a bit shifty-eyed when the redhead asked about his love life.

Recovery for Angeal was an entirely different story.

Genesis had been somewhat aware that his childhood friend was tortured. He still wasn’t entirely cognizant of the _extent_ to which he was tortured, but he had a fairly good idea. Unlike himself, Angeal did go to therapy. As far as the redhead was aware, he was still going to therapy...and if it worked for him, great. There were still times when his former fellow Commander’s eyes grew distant; when they were standing in loud traffic or when they were in a gathering of a large amount people. They’d discussed it...a little bit, but Angeal wasn’t the type to unburden himself freely...especially when the person who was asking had what he perceived as ‘enough to deal with.’ It took a lot of poking and prodding to get him to admit he was suffering from retrograde amnesia brought on by extreme trauma in the first place. The redhead was left with little choice but to be as supportive as possible...as much as possible. If this meant he dragged Saoirse over to ‘Uncle Angeal’s’ house every Thursday and let her slather his couch with ketchup, so be it.

The night ranger job didn’t last long.

Despite the dissolution of SOLDIER, the Planet still needed some type of military presence. Wutai was peaceful, but sometimes they thought they were too big for their britches and somebody had to be there to knock them down when they got the urge to invade Mideel. Zack ended up approaching him with the idea of forming a government branch dedicated to universal security and Genesis told him to go fuck himself several times before taking up the position of what amounted to a field sergeant despite the fact that nobody called it that. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet-and he was eternally grateful for it-and for the most part things were quiet. If he had to ship out, it was usually on weekends when Saoirse could stay at a friend’s, with Gillian, or with Aerith and Zack.

Hojo was nowhere to be found.

It niggled at him. Mostly because he knew the man well enough that he was fully aware that this was a bad thing. Eventually, what he was doing would come to light, and then they would have to either suffer it or take care of it. There was also the fact that he felt like he should answer for what he’d done to so many people...but mostly for what he had done to Sephiroth. Genesis wanted to clear the younger man’s name, but he couldn’t do that without a good reason to approach the courts again. Without Hojo, he couldn’t do that; he had no good _reason_ to do that, and he would push his luck by trying. He didn’t want to go to the press because it would disrupt Saoirse’s life, he didn’t want her caught up in the shitstorm that was the media unless it was absolutely necessary. Life was peaceful, it wasn’t perfect, but it was peaceful, and disrupting it by having some sort of tell-all was not only unnecessary, it was disrespectful.

He didn’t hear from Shikro.

Genesis didn’t go to any great lengths to seek him out so it didn’t bother him very much. He was fairly sure his adoptive father was avoiding him at all costs, and he was fine with that. The redhead wasn’t entirely certain he’d be able to keep his temper if he didn’t. He understood, in some ways, that Circinae had chosen her fate. And he didn’t believe in the _’written in the stars’_ shit, but his legally-appointed mother had chosen her lot. Maybe she’d been trapped when Genesis was a kid, but she’d had plenty of opportunity to leave once he’d joined Soldier. The fact that she had chosen to stay didn’t do much for his opinion of her character. He knew that it was fairly likely that she wasn’t causing a scene for his sake, so that the press didn’t walk all over his familial troubles while he was trying to rise through the ranks, but he honestly wouldn’t have given a damn. He supposed that this was another circumstance where purpose meant more than the culmination of intent, but he was terrible enough at understanding Sephiroth’s choice to die, he had-at the risk of understatement-enough to try and mentally compensate for.

Dating was impossible.

Genesis tried it, and the anxiety that came with it nearly threw him into hysterics. He couldn’t find anyone he felt connected to like he had to Sephiroth, he was always drawing comparisons or his partners were always bringing up his past. A few months after Saoirse turned six, he ended up in bed with Apple and then he ended up crying all over Apple and she was actually understanding and sympathetic and it was awful. Prior to his breakdown he’d demanded she use the cat-o-nine tails with no restrictions and she couldn’t hit hard enough, couldn’t make the pain great enough. It was only when she hesitantly said that it seemed like he was trying to repent and not orgasm that he fell apart. They were friends now, and they were both happier with being friends than bedpartners despite the fact that she was as lethal as a walking, talking, loaded machine gun. He had other flings...one night stands that were empty but sated him for the time being, but his love life was singularly bereft. He didn’t miss it...not really. Because you couldn’t miss something that no one could possibly replace.

“I...I have something for you.”

Drawn back into the moment, Genesis blinked and then forced himself to rise...forced himself to walk the few feet over a pink, fluffy-carpeted floor to where his daughter was standing with a square, laminated piece of paper clutched to her chest. She looked uncertain...a little bit apprehensive and a little sad. With his throat suddenly very tight, the mirth of the previous moment gone, the former Commander opened his mouth.

“...What is it?”

Still...she hesitated, and he couldn’t imagine what it was that would cause so much inner turmoil...what it could be that would make her look so small when she was only three years away from going to college. The fingers on the slip of paper clenched it tightly before seeming to force themselves to let go, Saoirse swallowed and took a deep breath.

“One of my friends...in school” she began haltingly. “Her Dad...her Dad...she said he was in one of...one of _his_ platoons.” Genesis froze, and she hurried on. “She gave this to me, and I didn’t know...I didn’t know if I should show it to you because I know it makes you sad...but I don’t know if it’s him. You don’t talk about him a lot, and I just want-I just _need_ to-”

“-Give it to me” Genesis said, his voice coming out harsher than he’d intended. When Saoirse looked miserable, he relented, closed the few feet between them to “It’s okay, I just...I don’t have anything of him, and I know you’ve probably wondered, but I never looked for anything to show you because most of it has...well, you know what the public thinks.”

She nodded but didn’t hand it over.

“I do know” she said quietly. “People talk about it, my classmates talk about it.” A deep breath. “Sometimes...they’re not very nice about it.”

The anger he felt that came with her statement was fiercely protective, but it was also directed at himself. Because she’d never mentioned anything of the sort, so he’d assumed that she was okay...that maybe her classmates were being kind to her.

“When did this start?” he asked tightly.

Green eyes flicked uncertainly to the side...to the bookbag in a pink cubby.

“This year” she said quietly.

It made sense.

He didn’t like it, but it made sense. Saoirse was in ninth grade now; her first year out of the private school he’d liked so well. And she’d asked to go to a public high school, despite the fact that he’d wanted her to go to the extended branch of the facility she’d left. They could, he decided, talk about it later...after all of this. If it was what he suspected it was...they would both need to process it together. There was the shuffle of plastic, and he took the square piece of paper with shaking hands...gazed at the blank whiteness of the back for a moment before turning it over. When he did, it felt a bit like descending from the top of a roller coaster. That first...steep drop into oblivion.

It was definitely him.

Specifically, it was him and a group of SOLDIERS who he didn’t know entirely by name, but he knew their faces. Some of them were dead. His focus, however, was on the man to the side...the tall, impassive figure that seemed to drown out everyone else in the frame. Dressed in his leathers...Masamune at his side...his hair swept over one shoulder like a shimmering waterfall. Sephiroth was gazing at the camera in that stony, distant way that indicated that he didn’t like the photo op but he knew it was necessary. His lower lip was just a bit stiff, his eyes were elsewhere. The men around him were smiling, but he was solemn...professional. This would have been before they were together, Genesis concluded. Possibly before they met, but it was hard to tell. He could only look...could only stare at the slope of a chiseled jaw...the broadness of his shoulders. The redhead knew what those cheeks would feel like under his palms...knew what the leather of his coat felt like...knew what his mouth tasted like. So assured, so tightly laced, so achingly beautiful...

“...Is it him?”

Genesis startled, felt his shoulders jerk before he could stop them. Blinking suddenly very moist eyes, he looked back at his daughter, who looked so curious and so hopeful that he forced the grief that had risen to try and consume him to the background. Clearing his throat, he nodded slowly.

“Yes” he said thickly, handing the picture back. “It is.”

Saoirse blinked down at it for a moment before tilting her head.

“He didn’t smile very much?”

Genesis laughed, and it was just on the edge of a sob.

“No” he chuckled waterously. “He didn’t. But damn-oh shit-I mean _shoot_ -darn if he didn’t have the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen.”

Green eyes surveyed the picture a while longer.

“Was he...kind?” she asked quietly.

Letting his hand drop, the former Soldier moved to stand just beside her; looked over her shoulder and into deep...viridian irises.’

“Maybe not in the way _you’d_ define as ‘kind’” he replied. “He wasn’t affectionate, or particularly convivial really. But he was fair...he wasn’t quick to judge and he was very patient, very determined.” He patted the head of red hair before him. “A bit like you really.”

“My…” Saoirse trailed off. “People say he was a monster” she muttered.

Sighing, prepared for the inevitable as he had been for a long time, Genesis plucked the photo out of her hands and gently placed it on the shelf of the cubby-cabinet next to him. Turning her by the shoulders, the scarlet-haired ex-Soldier waited until she looked up at him before taking her fingers in both of his own.

“Listen to me” he said quietly. “I haven’t told you...I haven’t told you about what happened to him. But it’s not because I don’t think you’re ready.” When his daughter looked confused, he smiled gently. “It’s because _I’m_ not ready.” He shook his head. “Your...Sephiroth…” Genesis’ choked on the title. “He was a _great man_ , with a lot of power, a lot of influence...but he was still a good person.”

“Is it my fault that he died?”

It took him a moment to realize what she was asking. When he did, Genesis sucked in a deep breath.

“No, _no_ , Saoirse. You didn’t-your _birth_ -” he corrected himself. “-Was not the reason he died. It was something else entirely, it’s not your fault.”

She appeared to contemplate this for a moment, her gaze somewhat over his shoulder.

“Do you think he’d like me?”

Again, the older man laughed, and again, it was a little breathless.

“Your father” he said at length. “ _Adored_ you.”

At this, she smiled; just a little bit, a single upward crook of the lips.

“I wish I could have met him, when I could remember it, I mean” Saoirse paused. “Did you love him a lot?”

Genesis hugged her because at that moment he didn’t really think he deserved her. Wrapping her up in the best Dad-hug he could muster, he kissed her cheek.

“Me too” he replied. “And yeah, I loved him...I still love him.”

Saoirse reciprocated the gesture hesitantly, with all the reticence of a typical teenager her age.

“I worry about you Dad, loving someone who’s so far away.”

Genesis scrunched his eyes shut and told himself he was _not_ going to cry. Because how the hell did he come back with something better than that?!

“I’m okay” he muttered. “I promise.”

“You’re not” was the grouchy response and he laughed and stepped back, sobering as he did so.

“I’m…” he gestured a bit helplessly before settling on something concrete. “I’m your Dad” he said dryly, and she gave him his own _’no shit’_ eyebrow. “But I’m also like...a person outside of that.” He put on a mock serious face. “You should know, really, that ‘Dad’ is not my real name.”

Saoirse rolled her eyes and he grinned.

“Way to ruin a heart-to-heart” she grumbled with a smile tugging at her lips as she made to turn away. Before she could completely do so, he grasped her arm gently.

“Saoirse” he said urgently. “I’m not dismissing that you worry about me, okay? It means a lot, but I want you to be a kid-a teen-whatever. Y’know, go out...have fun, live your life.”

Again, she smiled, but it was warmer this time.

“I know” she admitted. Her eyes flicked to the picture on top of the cubby cabinet. “Do you...do you mind if I frame it?” When Genesis shook his head, she nodded. “I’m gonna clean my room now.”

Moving towards the door, the former Commander acknowledged her comment with a wave of his hand.

“Good idea” he said airily. “If you procrastinate any longer I think I might have to use a shovel to dig you out of bed in the morning.” The redhead paused and turned back. “But Saoirse, no matter what anyone says...about me...about Seph, just know that I-that _we_ -” he struggled for a moment. “You are and were loved” Genesis finished. “A lot.”

With her eyes still on the photo of Sephiroth, his daughter nodded.

“Yeah…” she replied. “I know…”

“...Thanks Dad.”


	2. Chapter 2

The radio in his fist lit up momentarily.

Looking at the indicator light-accompanied with the customary, somewhat tinny and loud _***blip***_ that came with it-Angeal took a world weary breath before bringing the device just shy of his lips.

“Hewley here.”

As he waited for a response, the dark-haired former FIRST scanned the street before him. He’d be lying if he said that law enforcement work wasn’t just on the wrong side of boring. On an active day, he didn’t mind it; he was doing what he could to give back to the city and that was really all that mattered. On slow days...he sometimes caught himself wishing an army would invade Midgar, just for the heck of it. The minute he had such thoughts, he felt terribly guilty; because the city had seen enough war and bloodshed to last it several thousand years. Really, the _world_ had known enough corruption and bloodshed to last it several thousand years. Things were peaceful now...as peaceful as things could get in a large scale metropolis. He made very few arrests, and those that he did were usually fairly petty. Of course, to a retired SOLDIER, ‘petty’ consisted of heists and the occasional violent street gang. But it wasn’t like there were Wutaiin footmen breaking into Behemoth Bank or oppositional forces spraypainting vulgar language across HQ’s exterior.

That didn’t, of course, change the fact that sometimes he wished they were.

He’d talked to his therapist about it because it was disturbing. Angeal had never been what some might categorize as ‘bloodthirsty’ before. But the therapist in question was quick to correct him on this particular outlook. She informed him-quite gently-that wishing for something you were comfortable with in the past was not bloodthirsty, it was simply human. He in turn argued that wanting a war was _inhumane_ and she laughed and asked him if he’d like to get a coffee. Having no better argument, the dark-haired man agreed. He soon found himself in a cafe a few blocks down from her office with a dumbfounded expression. Because no one had ever managed to drag him out for drinks on the pretense of therapy, but that was exactly what she did. She did, and she managed to make three hours seem like three minutes.

Her name was Willow.

Specifically, her name was Willow Jenkins. When Angeal first laid eyes on her, his first thought was that he liked her quite a bit. That was a bit strange, because he’d never come to that conclusion about anyone else simply by looking at them. But she had warm grey eyes framed with long lashes and laugh lines. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, smiling lips and curly blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. More importantly, however, she was smiling at _him_...and for some reason he felt like he’d been waiting for a large part of his life to see her do that. There wasn’t any good sense in that train of thought, so he quashed it immediately and introduced himself to which she kindly informed him that she already knew his name-which of course she did he was on the roster-and then he had the privilege of blushing to the roots of his hair.

His own feelings aside, Willow was a good therapist.

She would be; you had to have extensive training in trauma counseling to get on SOLDIER’s ‘recommended’ list. More than that though, she was understanding, she was personable, and she wanted to help. At first, he was reluctant to open up to her. Not because he didn’t believe she had the credentials, but because his past had taught him that credentials weren’t always enough. They started at the beginning, and by beginning he meant _the very beginning_ ; from his earliest memories as a child onward. It was hard initially, because those memories were so sacred to him. Not merely because of Genesis, but because he had so few of them left.

Boyhood seemed like an illusory dream; like a spacious, illustrious, and limitless time when he had so many visions of his future and the ability to choose any of them. There were the dark moments, of course...the days when his redheaded friend would show up with bruises and haunted eyes. He talked about such moments haltingly...it took him an entire session to get through the memories of that alone because he'd never told anyone before; Gillian knew but Gillian never saw the full extent of the damage. It felt like a betrayal, a little bit, and he’d called Genesis afterwards...because no one deserved to have their pain elucidated to a stranger for someone else’s healing benefit. But Genesis was understanding, and he didn’t _understand_ that at all, really.

Painting a picture of his time in SOLDIER was difficult, because he had believed in it so much and then it had all turned out to be a lie. It was disappointing...a betrayal of faith, really. Angeal had wanted _so much_ for Shinra when they'd given him so little in return. Being used hurt...being deceived hurt more. He felt...in some ways, like he'd coerced his men when he found out...like he'd coerced _Zack_ ; filled his head with stupid, puffed-up concepts of honor when he himself was blinded to his own terrible ignorance. That was the hardest blow of all; the fact that he, as a leader and a figurehead, had put himself in a place where he was promoting something so evil. He felt terribly guilty about that...felt like everything he’d built himself up to be was a lie.

**_*”You’re off shift Hewley, what’re you still doing out there? Go home and get some rest.”*_ **

It took him two weeks to go over everything that had happened to him during his incarceration. Mostly because he kept having to take breaks...kept leaving in the middle of a session because he felt like if he stayed confined to Willow’s office for a minute longer he was going to implode. In the early years, he was haunted by reoccuring dreams of torture and violation. He woke up screaming into the dark in an apartment that was empty save for himself. Genesis had long before left HQ...he was alone with his demons and they were so virulent that there were times he considered killing himself just to be rid of his own brain. More than that...he felt responsible for what had happened to Sephiroth simply because he hadn’t _been_ there when it really mattered. Logic dictated otherwise, but PTSD was not logical...it didn’t have a direct course or aim. That guilt was overrun with _more_ guilt because surely he couldn’t feel as badly as Genesis did...he had no right to feel guilt. Those feelings lingered...even when he was doing significantly better they lingered.

The trial made it worse.

It was torture...to sit in that courthouse and listen to the opposition trample all over the General he knew...the childhood friend he knew. Because Sephiroth had never been manipulative...he could be harsh, cold, and unwelcoming but he was never manipulative. The last time Angeal had seen Genesis look so lost was when he was a child. Sitting in the defendant's box as wave after wave of victim testimony crashed down upon them...the redhead looked small and helpless. It made him so angry, because Genesis was not weak, but the courts painted him out to be some lovelorn...airheaded sap who couldn’t say no to someone far more powerful than him. When it was his turn to testify he’d been too angry to elucidate what he was saying clearly and that only served to drive the guilt into him harder. The lawyers insisted they all did their best...but he wasn’t sure. What he _was_ sure of was that the man he’d called ‘General’ would now go down in history as a murderous psychopath because all of them were perceived as ‘emotionally compromised.’ Those days were terrible...they were _horrible_. When Genesis tried to end his life directly afterwards he felt like he was living some kind of nightmare.

He joined law enforcement as a last resort.

Angeal _needed_ to see that justice could still be done correctly on some sort of scale. He needed order in all of the chaos, something to keep him grounded. They didn’t even put him through the training program; they hired him straight away and he was doing rounds by himself a week later. It wasn’t half as action-oriented as SOLDIER was, but it was still something. Some of his men followed him over...some of them sought different career paths and he didn’t begrudge them for it. He’d never wanted to lead, but he’d been put in a position where he was forced to lead...losing that wasn’t half as painful as he’d once thought it would be. He still had the occasional coworker that would shout _’sir!’_ at him at the top of his lungs, but it was a far cry from the chorus of booted feet and the sea of uniforms he’d once had to oversee. Despite the occasional drudgery of it, he went home at the end of the day feeling like he’d done something good.

“Cadet Hane’s wife is giving birth tonight” Angeal replied after a moment. “It’s their first, so I offered to cover his shift.”

Between work, therapy, friends, and family...there was some stability in his life. Genesis brought Saoirse over when he could, and he enjoyed those times immensely. Gillian visited twice a week to sit down and talk with him, and he saw Zack and Aerith on the weekends. When Zack announced somewhat anxiously that he was going to propose, it didn’t surprise him at all. He was happy for them, and he could only hope that their marriage was just as happy if not more. Genesis got a job in a military branch of law enforcement and they argued about it until they weren’t arguing anymore...Saoirse started going to middle school and life continued on….for most. He worried about Genesis because it was clear that his romantic life was going nowhere. When pressed, the redhead got snappy and irritable so he let it be, but it concerned him. At the same time...he understood. No one could replace Sephiroth...Sephiroth was inherently irreplaceable in many aspects, including his place as a father. It didn’t stop him from fretting, however...but there wasn’t much he could do.

Willow announced her intention to terminate their ‘professional relationship’ by asking him out on a date.

Angeal was gobsmacked because he’d never been asked out on a date. He supposed in retrospect that his reaction was a little ridiculous; because he’d left the office rather quickly and called Zack who laughed so hard he was clearly-even from the other end of a phone-in tears. Willow followed him out-unbeknownst to himself-and apparently listened in on his diatribe of _'what do I do?’_ s and _'of course I like her!’_ s and _'do you think she's thought this through?’_ s. When he turned around she was leaning against the wall a few inches from his face looking amused and warm and lovely. The former SOLDIER yelped and she laughed and kissed him and told him she was 'very sure’ and that he should ‘relax.’ Zack wolf-whistled from where he'd dropped his phone on the floor and Angeal hung up on him with his boot.

 _”I don't know what you see in me”_ he'd confessed when they were walking out of the library later. A good date apparently consisted-in Willow's opinion-of coffee and many books. _”I mean you know everything about me, this isn't going to be very interesting for you.”_

His therapist turned…. _impromptu girlfriend?_ looked at him over the styrofoam rim of her mug and pursed her lips.

 _”You're the kindest, most good-hearted man I've ever met”_ she replied, smiling. _”It's not about how ‘interesting’ you are, Angeal. You're a good person, and you have good intentions, for everyone you meet.”_ She paused and turned somewhat pink. _”And you're very handsome”_ she murmured shyly. _”You’d have to be walking blind to not notice that.”_

But Angeal did not notice that.

Not about himself anyway, and he told her so and she laughed and looked at him like he was something wonderful and he didn’t understand it at all. He didn’t understand it, but they’d had more dates and she didn’t get bored of him and she was funny and interesting and sweet and he kept waiting for it to crash down around his ears, but it didn’t. They took walks in the park holding hands and he kept telling himself that something was going to go wrong but it never did. Willow brought him breakfast and he cooked dinner for her in her little flat and it was Heaven. He got a new therapist, a man this time, and he wasn’t the same as Willow but he didn’t have an intermittent crush on him either so he supposed it was quite different. Angeal confided in him that he thought Willow might be too good for him and he stared at him over the top of his clipboard and told him that nobody was good enough for anybody when they found the right person. This didn’t help him very much but it was oddly comforting all the same.

Gillian started asking questions.

Specifically, Angeal came over to her house one Sunday evening and she told him to bring _‘whoever was making him so happy to meet her’_ or she _‘might just die of old age and lack of grandchildren.’_ And Angeal-of course-said there was _‘nobody’_ and that he was _‘just really happy with his job’_ and she looked at him like she thought he was a bit of an idiot if _he_ thought he could get away with lying to her. That went on for a while until he brought Willow over for dinner and now-to his great chagrin-he couldn’t really separate his mother and his girlfriend. Gillian was head over heels for Willow; she _adored_ her, and he was grateful for it but sometimes he wished they’d spend less time giggling over his baby photos and talking about how much he loved his teddy bear. And he still loved his teddy bear, anyway. Angeal reflected upon this indignantly as he looked out at the darkened city street before him. Mr. Huggy was a gift from his father...the only one he really had left. Of course he was going to hang onto him. An image of Genesis laughing hysterically into a divan gave him pause but he was stubborn in his resolution. The radio sighed explosively before continuing.

_***”Fine. That was good of you Hewley, but you’re off for the day tomorrow, that’s an order. “*** _

“Yessir” Angeal replied, watching as a lone cat glared at him somewhat resentfully before continuing onwards.

The radio fell silent.

It wasn’t easy...none of it. There were times when he felt terribly guilty for his life being so good when so many had died for it to get that way. Angeal felt guilty because Genesis clearly wasn’t interested in dedicating himself to someone else in a romantic manner. There were times...several times really, when the redhead showed up at his front door to pick up Saoirse half drunk with that familiar _’I’ve just been fucked into the mattress for six hours ‘Geal’_ look and empty eyes that were screaming at him. It was hard, because the scarlet-haired former SOLDIER was clearly looking, but he wasn’t finding anything...or anyone. It worried Saoirse, she told him so often. His childhood friend’s daughter had called him to say her father was either terrible at dating or he really just didn’t want to fall in love again.

Angeal didn’t really know what to say to that.

He’d done his share of trying to help; dates with pretty sweet girls that Genesis absolutely couldn’t stand and a handful of men that had expressed an interest when asked. They were rejected; sometimes they were slept with, but they were always rejected. He stopped because the redhead was clearly irritated by it, and even more than that the people Angeal tried to connect him with usually ended up disappointed; or worse, broken-hearted. As much as he wanted to be that guy friend who set _his_ friend up with the perfect person...he couldn’t. Genesis was an adult, and if as an adult he couldn’t let go of the memory of his dead lover, there was only so much he could do. Putting the key in the cruiser’s ignition, the dark-haired man sighed and pulled out onto the main road. In the end, he supposed that forward motion mattered; the ability to persevere. That was what kept them moving forward, and he could only hope that it continued to help them move forward in the future….

In the end...continuity was the only thing they could hope to achieve with total certainty.

* * *

 

“‘Geal, c’mon you can’t play a hand like that and expect me to come back with something better.”

Raising an eyebrow, the aforementioned man stared over the fan of his deck of cards and into sapphire eyes. Genesis snorted and threw his hand down before picking up his discarded screwdriver. Taking a swig, the redhead waved a frustrated hand in the air, which usually signalled he was done for the night. They were currently sitting at Gillian’s dining room table with a plate of cookies and some slightly more bitter things to drink. It was around 22:00; the owner of the house had gone to bed long before then with a stern order for them not to stay up too late. His mother had had the house commissioned during the Refurbishment Project. It wasn’t large, but it was larger than the tiny cottage he grew up in and much more modern. He’d been surprised, at first, that she was willing to leave the place she’d live in for so many years, but he could see the logic in it. She was getting older, and this house didn’t require her to drive a hundred miles to get to a hospital. Moreover, she was closer to Angeal, something that his position in SOLDIER would never have allowed.

Gillian also now had no reason to remain under the wings of the Rhapsodos family.

The idea was as painful as it was relieving. His mother had endured so much just so he could live a life-a childhood life, at least-as free from fear and pain as possible. Angeal's mother had acquiesced to the tyranny of the Project, had realized its machinations too late...and then done everything she could to do right by her wrongs. Gillian had suffered so he could live. Maybe it wasn't much of a life; he had, after all, fallen straight into the claws of that which she had sought so desperately to remove him from the minute he was of age. He could remember, quite distinctly, when he'd told her he was joining SOLDIER. Angeal was fairly sure she'd meant to tell him then. He'd waited until the last minute to inform her of his choice; stood at the front door and announced it with his rucksack over his shoulder. And his poor...poor mother, she'd cried. At the time, he thought that Gillian was afraid he'd fall in battle; he'd told her-with all the bravado of a blind idiot-that he would make her proud...that he'd survive and send home all of his stipend. He didn't let her get a word in edgewise and Genesis was impatient. By the time he _had_ time to feel bad about it, he was on a chopper bound for Midgar...and it was too late.

The idea that if he'd just stopped for a moment...if he'd let her speak...it tortured him.

Now, of course, things were better...but 'better’ was a relative term. The amount of people that had had to die in order to get to 'better’ almost made it a negative effect. Angeal was grateful for peace, but he would not-could not-forget the sacrifice...the bloodshed meted out in order to garner that peace. Willow told him he was 'self-flagellating’, but forgetting was hard...forgiving himself was harder. If he were entirely honest, forgiving himself was harder than it was to overcome the trauma of his imprisonment. He _wanted_ to feel better about it, but he didn't know how to.

“So, when am I gonna meet your paramour?”

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, Angeal looked sourly over the table at his redheaded friend, who raised a scarlet brow and leaned back in his chair.

“Paramour?” the former Commander hedged, placing his deck on the table.

“Damn” Genesis cursed leaning forward again to gaze at his cards. “Would've had you in three moves. You've got a helluva bluff.” When the dark-haired man looked alarmed, he rolled his eyes. “I'm through for tonight” Angeal was assured. “But you're good.” A smiled curved over mischievous lips. “Doesn't change the fact you're a shit liar.” The owner of the Buster Sword grimaced and his childhood friend laughed. “C'mon, I could use some good news in the romance department.” Genesis’ playful expression spasmed for a moment before righting itself. “It's not like I have anything to report.”

He weighed the pros and the cons.

The pros were-of course-that Willow was wonderful and she would probably love Genesis by association with him. She already loved Zack and Aerith, and Angeal supposed it was a bit cruel of him not to have introduced his best friend to his girlfriend sooner. The cons were simple...but not simple. Angeal didn't want to tote his relationship in front of a man who was clearly struggling to find closure, and who might never find closure. Sephiroth was a dark shadow behind the redhead wherever he went. The younger man was in his eyes...in their quiet sadness, even when overshadowed by laughter. He was in Genesis’ smile; in the way it was never as wide as it used to be...in the manner that one corner of his lips never turned up quite as much as the other. The General was in the redhead's expressions...in his body language; in the way he seemed to stand alone...but not in the wild, playful way he had before. No, Genesis stood alone even when he was surrounded by people who cared about him ..he was fragile in a manner that tore at Angeal ...over and over and over.

It seemed wrong to have his heart be so whole when Genesis’ was so broken.

“I'm not going to jump over the table and strangle you, 'Geal.” When the aforementioned man opened his mouth, the redhead across from him raised a hand and shook his head. “I know what's going through that very dense head of yours.” The former Commander lifted his chin somewhat, his earring jingling as he did so. _”Poor brokenhearted Genesis”_ he said in a drab tone. _“I can't throw my budding romance in his face when he's such a sad bastard.”_

“It's not pity-” Angeal began swiftly only to be cut off.

“-Isn't it?” Genesis snorted when the dark-haired former FIRST dithered for a moment, his hand coming down on the table with perhaps a little too much force. “Just because you're being nice about it doesn't change what it is.” Angeal must have looked torn, because his expression softened. “I love Sephiroth” he said quietly, and his voice wavered only a little. “I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that that's never going to change. But Angeal, I love you too. As a friend, as a brother. I'm not gonna _hate_ you just because you found someone you really care about. That's not going to hurt me.” Crimson brows drew together. “What hurts me is the fact that, after all this time, you think I can't handle that.” He laughed, and it was bitter and wounded. “I think I've been through a heck of a lot, and if I can't handle my best friend having a girlfriend...man, I've got serious problems.”

He was right.

It was strange-Angeal mused miserably-the fact that he could mess things up so spectacularly by trying to be considerate was rather impressive.  
He hadn't meant to, of course. Intent didn't matter very much in the face of the fact that he'd known Genesis since...well...as far back as his memory went. Despite the fact that he was irascible, sometimes irrationally jealous and often cruel...he wasn't unreasonable. More than that...he was older, he was well traveled, he'd loved and lost. The Commander he'd known at twenty two would have been shouting at this point, but this wasn't twenty-two year old Genesis. Both of them were well into their forties, even if they didn't look it. They knew better...or at least they ought to. Smearing his hand of cards haphazardly on the table before him, Angeal closed his eyes.

“I'm sorry” he said hoarsely.

There was the rustle of fabric and he lifted heavy lids to watch as his redheaded friend shook his head, an absent-minded hand rubbing over the red knit-fabric of his sweater.

“Doesn't matter” was the muttered response. “You meant well, I guess.”

The silence that stretched on afterwards told him they both knew that he was letting Angeal off the hook with almost criminal ease.

“Willow” the dark-haired former Commander said at length. Genesis tilted his head in question. “Her name” the owner of the Buster Sword supplied. “It's Willow.”

“Pretty name” was the pensive reply. “How'd you meet her?”

Angeal cleared his throat.

“She was my therapist.”

Genesis got that look in his eyes that indicated he probably wanted to say something illicit, but appeared to reign himself in.

“Of course she was” he sighed. There was another stretch of wordless chronology. “You like her?”

Angeal let out a deep breath that was halfway to a laugh.

“Yeah” he said slowly. “I really do.”

His childhood friend smiled, and those sapphire eyes were knowing.

“Good” he said simply. His expression took on a mischievous air. “Now, the important question is, does she like you?”

“Well she asked me out” Angeal said dryly. “I sure hope so.”

“Direct” Genesis remarked, sounding impressed. “My kind of woman.” He raised his hands when the dark-haired former Commander gave him a hairy brow. “Not touching it” he said hastily. “You need someone direct anyway. Never'd get anywhere if you had the reigns.”

Angeal spent half a minute trying to decide if he should be offended before he laughed.

“Fair enough” he chuckled. He pushed the ace of spades around with his index finger. “I think...I think I'd like to get old with her...you know?”

For the first time, Genesis looked sad...but underneath that sadness was concern.

“I do know” the redhead said quietly. “But can you?” When Angeal looked at him in confusion, he touched his face...unchanged... unwrinkled despite decades. “Can _we_?”

He hadn't considered it.

As he did, Angeal felt a bit cold inside. It was all well and good to love someone, but an entirely different thing to love someone who you would watch age as you remained the same. He was fairly sure he'd be happy with Willow no matter what she looked like...but could she endure it? Could he do that to her? ...Ask that of her? Swallowing, he opened his mouth.

“Aging doesn't seem that great” he replied weakly.

Sapphire irises observed him in a way that said they knew more of what he was thinking than he was letting on. After a minute, Genesis looked elsewhere, his gaze weary.

“I don't think it would be that bad” he replied heavily. “To die” the redhead added, tugging at his earring. “Better than...stasis. Nothing's built to last forever. I don't think I want to live long enough to see everyone I love die.” His face contorted. “To see Saoirse-” he broke off, his voice choked. “Angeal” he said tightly. “She doesn't know, but it tortures me...the mere idea of it.” Something in his face must have betrayed his inner anguish because the scarlet haired former first reached across the table and grabbed both his hands. “I'm a fucking downer” he muttered. “But I just-” he inhaled deeply. “-I don't want you to suffer.”

Letting go of his emotions concerning their discussion was hard, but it wasn't like he hadn't been equally unfair. So when he squeezed Genesis’ hands back, it was with the knowledge that despite themselves and their flaws, they were still brothers...if not in blood, in bond.

“I know” Angeal said quietly. “Thank you.”

Genesis snorted.

“You don't have to thank me for screwing up your perspective on relationships.”

“You didn't screw it up.” When his companion looked skeptical he continued. “It was something I'd have to consider at some point, you just gave me the opportunity to think about it sooner.”

Genesis smiled weakly, and it was an apology as much as it was a reassurance.

“...What are friends for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long delay. I fell off the emotional wagon a bit. This chapter is kind of more opening....more perspective on how everyone is doing. This semester is also the hardest I have encountered...ever. which I guess is expected but no less nerve wracking.


	3. Chapter 3

If he could compare it to anything, it would be water.

Like plunging into a deep wellspring...sinking to the bottom and feeling the press of aqueous matter envelope you as the sun from the surface spiralled downwards. Weightless yet heavy, wrapped in the culmination of precipitation and flung into the abyss. If he could lift his fingers, he imagined they would resist his forward motion; would weave through something thick and soundless...slow...insoluble...slick. It was warm; if he could see he imagined he might envision light cutting downwards from the surface. His mind conjured images of particles caught...swirling in glittering solar rays. If he needed to breathe, it might fill his lungs with something cold and clear; heavy over his taste buds and down his throat. It wouldn't be painful, merely final. The end to a fight upstream...the last stanza of a symphony. His ears were filled with the initial dive; that crashing noise one experiences when throwing themselves into the crest of a wave. Bubbles ‘round the auditory senses; the roar of the surf...like pressing your ear to the mouth of a shell but too close…too close.

It was like that...much of the time.

Peaceful...it was peaceful. He had never known peace and the solidarity of it was staggering. Not in a bad way...just in a foreign way. He had nothing to compare it to, so he spent much of his time trying to accept it. Logic dictated that this...whatever it was... shouldn't feel this way. There wasn't anything _wrong_ with it...but he didn't know how he was able to make that judgement. Scientifically, the end was the end...there was nothing after... nothing collective. He had a consciousness, and that didn't make any sense at all. Of course, what he defined as a consciousness could simply be a state of symbiosis. Maybe he was a part of everything...maybe he was nothing. The idea wasn't as disturbing as it sounded. Some part of him whispered that it should be...that this… _idealism_ , or state, should terrify him.

_....But why?_

That was the most prevalent thought in his mind; _why?_ His memories were hazy...at first. Snatches of things that had come before...like watching shadows move behind glass thickly fogged with steam. He could remember leather and buckles...those were his first prominent recollections. Floating in his whitewashed mindscape, he remembered the buttery _***shhk***_ of leather over his skin, the sharp _***click***_ of his boot clasps. Muscle memory; repetitive actions he'd done hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. He obsessed over those few snippets of his life meticulously;, turned them over in his mind...relived the sensationalism of it over and over and over again. As his cognizance improved, he could recall more.

He remembered pain next.

The first time the memory of him being strapped to a gurney assaulted his frontal lobe, he screamed. He screamed...and he didn't. It was something inside... something compressed that burned through him and exploded into the stratosphere of his limited existence. Everything turned into white fire, into maniacal laughter and spectacles...the smell of copper...the sluice of scarlet and every inch of him was flayed wide. He stared into the round brightness of a surgical light and tasted blood and his psyche careened in fear and agony. This, too, made sense. Pain he knew well; pain had always been his companion, even when he wasn't plastered to duty. He had known pain longer even than he'd known occupation and obligation; longer than he'd known anything. The more his memory dredged up, the more he accepted it. It gave him a sense of identity, and somehow that made him sick...made him lonely.

...He remembered subservience next.

And it hadn't been subservience at the time...not really. He was doing what he could for the greater good. Standing in driving rain running through drills; hefting a great, sweeping metal blade and sneering into the face of death. Strong...he felt strong outside...but inside he was crumbling apart. Still...onwards...still rising up, up, _up_ and they put his name on the billboards and faceless fuzzy people cheered and he felt numb. Platoon after platoon... leading his men into death for the sake of a military regime so corrupt you could pile a thousand corpses under the foundations and the smell wouldn't displace the bureaucratic rot. Suits, ties, dead eyes, and _lies_. And oh they’d slathered him with sonnets about SOLDIER, but he'd always seen through it all. Seen through it and done nothing...bowed his head and stagnated because what else could he do? Hounded by the press, threatened by the Science Department, shackled to his name and his face and his _honor_.

...Pathetic.

Not all of it though...not all.

He remembered friends.

Few of them, but friends nonetheless. Dark hair and blue irises; a face quick to smile and quick to comfort. Hopeful for what he served, hopeful for those who served with him. Camaraderie...equals, so he thought, and rank had never mattered to him. He'd never looked at them as lesser, never saw them as anyone but the two who might possibly be able to understand his situation. Not to help, of course, but to weather it...to survive with what they had. And so of course the competition blew him back, came in the form of something loud and raucous with an attitude the size of a planet. Spars and missions, squabbling across the expanse of a hanger and destroying half of Intelligence over something as ridiculously stupid as a plate of spaghetti. And still...it was...fun. He remembered fun. He remembered a large sword on the back of broad shoulders as its owner sprinted down a hallway in hot pursuit of a thatch of red hair that was cackling wildly and holding a stack of rations. He could recall campfires...sitting in the shadows while his Commanders built a rapport with their men. Loud voices and fevered expressions...cheeks flushed with the wayward stain of battle and sapphire eyes... sapphire eyes looking at him, looking _into_ him and…

_”Sephiroth…”_

_Oh._

Sephiroth remembered love.

Specifically, he remembered one love and no others. None had come before, and none after. He remembered a tidal wave...an inexorable pull...a drop downwards from the slope of a mountain. His recollections fed him images of cerise lips pulled into smiles...so many smiles...so many flamboyant, loud gestures. Laughter...there was _so much laughter_ in these memories...it made the sun shine brighter, made the day lighter...made his heart feel like he didn’t always have to fight with his head to get a word in. The soft press of thighs the color of pearls...the humid, pink flush of aroused flesh...nimble fingers digging into his sides and and the curl of a tongue in the shell of his ear...a hitch of breath sending a thrill through his auditory senses. Sephiroth was given retrospect in regards to a mouth against the curve of his abdomen...of desperate snatches of solace in a timespace that seemed so impossibly perilous. Sephiroth remembered _Genesis_ …

...And his questions morphed from _’why’_....to _’where’?_

Because Sephiroth had a life somewhere...a life he had forgone...had cast aside in favor of protecting that which was precious to him. But he shouldn’t have to live _this_...this kind of dull-albeit pleasant-blankness combined with vague shadows in the recesses of his brain. He had _felt_ the metal of his lover’s blade slice through him...woken on the ground to the spill of his blood...to the hot bubble of death as it hissed against white drifts. And death had seemed honest at the time...seemed unavoidable. Because he was _tired_ of hurting people, and he could not exist knowing that he hadn’t done everything in his power to prevent himself from harming the innocent ever again. But the look...the look in those sapphire eyes when they cut him down was catastrophic. Sephiroth had known-in a brief, fleeting flash of clarity before he died-that this would _ruin_ Genesis. The agony in his partner’s expression went beyond mortality...beyond reason and beyond thought. He wouldn’t, in all fairness, be entirely surprised if the redhead wasn’t alive anymore either.

The mere idea of it hurt him more than he cared to admit.

He knew what that concept of love lost felt like; knew what it had driven him to do. Genesis wasn’t homicidal, but he was human. And Angeal had warned Sephiroth, very briefly, that the redhead had had so few loves. Sephiroth had taken away his partner’s choice in the matter, had sacrificed himself without consideration of what it would do to his other half. And Genesis put so much value in choice...in independence. It was selfish really...even if he didn’t want to consider the fact that it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. Nothing...because he was so far away from it all. He was blind to the happenings in the world...blind even to his own physical state...if he even had a physical body anymore. There were times when he didn’t entirely know who he was...what he was...what his purpose was in all of this. So when he opened his ‘eyes’ one day to find himself staring at the ceiling of a pink bedroom with fluffy pillows...he was very confused...but one thing was certain;

Sephiroth was not dead.

* * *

 

At first, he didn’t know what was going on.

He breathed...but he didn’t. He didn’t have any control over the limbs and arms of the body he was in. Realistically, there was no sense of physical presence at all...just an impression of _being_ inside a vessel. And that vessel was very tiny and very, very young. So young that the dresser next to the door looked like a monstrously large, hulking shape in the dark of the room. The space itself had clearly been fashioned with girlhood in mind; there were flowers everywhere. Big, small….plastered on the walls...strung from the ceiling. The door to the room was hidden by a bead curtain infused with the colors of the rainbow...there were tape-up, luminescent stars above his head in the shape of familiar constellations. A book cubby was in the corner...illuminated by the low glow of a tulip-shaped night-light. He didn’t recognize the titles...and he wouldn’t. He had never been given the opportunity of reading children’s books. The whimsical shapes on the coverings of bears, dinosaurs, fuzzy animals and colors were foreign to him.

Someone had spent a lot of time fashioning this room.

The amount of love put into it was clear to him even with his limited knowledge of how childhood should work. It was personalized with the occupant’s preferences; pink being the main and most dominant preference. There were little dresses hung up in the open part of the dresser; lace and frills and little shiny shoes that made his chest ache like it was on fire. He wanted to _cry_ but he couldn’t…and he wanted to because this was what he could have had if Shinra hadn’t pushed them so hard. Maybe this was his eternal punishment...to witness the life he might have lived if he’d heeded his lover’s counsel. It was fitting, he decided. That he would forever exist to wish for something he would now never know the certainty of. To live looking out of a little girl’s eyes...possessed with the inability to be sure that this was what she had lived or what he’d _wanted_ for her to live.

Someone was crying.

Specifically, someone was sobbing in a deep, heart wrenching manner that left him shivering. And it wasn’t just him...wasn’t just his incorporeal...vaguely-there self vibrating until his figurative ‘teeth’ rattled. The body...the consciousness he resided in was frightened and miserable and sad. The tiny form that was-for now-his residence, was clutching a fluffy pillow and staring at the bedroom door in a lonely and confused manner. And it- _she?_ -wanted to get up...wanted to see what was going on but at the same time she was resigned...like this had happened before, many times. The coverlets shifted as she did...as she rolled around restlessly until the sounds of grief grew-apparently-too loud for her to ignore. Stockinged feet slid over the edge of the bed and he watched them go with a kind of detached bewilderness. As much as the action was before him...he didn’t feel like he was part of the body whose experiences he was witnessing. If he went for the macabre, it felt like he was looking out behind the eyes...and that was it. He couldn’t feel the fabric of the nightgown that followed...couldn’t feel her limbs or the sensations coming from them...only her thoughts...her worries.

Sephiroth remembered Saoirse.

He remembered her...and he was fairly sure he was seeing _through_ her. The avenue of thought that brought him to such a conclusion was vague but no less concrete. As she padded her way to the door...little fingers brushing aside the beads...he was only surer. The strangeness of it all only intensified his sense of purgatorial existence...only drove him deeper into the well of despair that had been threatening him for so long. A small, pale hand pushed down on the curved doorknob….quietly, ever so quietly-so as not to make a sound-before the entry was revealed to both of them. The hallway outside was dimly lit; illuminated only by a nightlight, this one not so pink. The walls were whitewashed...of a strange antique kind of hardwood with weathered slats. Despite their aged appearance they were obviously styled to appear that way, the building wasn’t dilapidated or crumbling into ruin. Instead, it gave the space a bit of a retro feel...not entirely antiquated nor modern.

There were pictures on the wall...and it was their existence that cemented his resolve. Because they were photographs of a baby with a thatch of red hair, a toddler sitting in an executive room in HQ clutching a stuffed porpoise; in the rain wearing red rubber boots and a yellow waterproof coat and hat. She was a familiar face and an unfamiliar one...like looking at a stranger that he’d known his entire life and then some. Her eyes...her _eyes_...if he’d had a voice he’d have spoken to her already...called to her...done something… _said something_. Because he wanted... _he wanted_. It was an ache...an ache so strong it suffocated him because this was his child...the child he’d carried, the child he’d borne and held and then lost...lost to glittering snow and far away cries and emerald irises that were lighter than his own but no less his.

_”Daddy?”_

Her voice was far away.

It echoed...like it was coming from a great distance despite the fact that he was there, _right there_. And he understood...a little bit. His cells were still present in Saoirse, but not to a great degree. Wherever he was...wherever his _body_ was...this was transference. Not unlike a radio frequency; their cells would transmit memories and recollections back and forth if one of them didn’t know how to manipulate them to some degree. Due to his experience with Jenova...he was likely able to block her subconsciously. His daughter’s psyche was nowhere near as virulent or powerful as the Calamity’s. She was, of course, young; that could change, but for now he was able to keep her out. Feasibly, she might never learn about the darker side of her biology, and it would never be an issue. The fact that she couldn’t ‘see’ him unless he willed it didn’t make it any easier to bear...but he knew-in a single instant-that she would _never_ see him, because it was not permissible. He’d made his choice...he was gone...he couldn’t insert himself into her life as a ‘father’ who wasn’t really there at all. A parental figure drifting in the recesses of a young mind was no more beneficial than Jenova had been for him.

The hallway opened up into the living room.

Specifically, it opened up into an open-floor living space with wide...dark ceiling beams. The kitchen space was to the left...again mostly white with some dark or bright accents. It was simplistic, minimalistic but none of the appliances were outdated or appeared to be in poor repair. Chrome glittered under solid noir surfaces...black countertops and bar stools just behind a glass dining room table with four chairs. To the right was the communal area; a bleach-pale couch with green, yellow, blue and red pillows...a large flat screen TV sat on the wall just above a massive stone fireplace. There was a wooden toy bin in the corner carved of dark mahogany...the head of a stuffed teddy bear just poking out. Sephiroth’s ‘eyes’ focused on said stuffed animal for a moment...deliberated before gazing straight ahead; up a steep staircase and into the darkness of what appeared to be a loft above.

It was there the crying was coming from.

He wanted to tell her to stay below; that the steps were too steep for someone of her stature to climb...but she took them slow. Carefully, hand over hand, foot after foot. Twice, her nightgown caught on the edge of a stair and his heart nearly dropped into his stomach each time. But she was determined...strong and focused. Despite the fact that she was clearly nervous, she was also resolute in her purpose and he despaired at the similarities in their wills. Up, up, up and the further ‘they’ climbed the more apprehension seemed to tighten in his ‘gut’. He’d never been afraid of the dark; the idea of the unknown had never scared him because the reality of his days had always been wrought in so much agony...especially as a youth. It was irrational to fear nothing...it was rational to fear substance because substance had taught him that _he_ was nothing.

The loft was a bedroom.

Specifically, it was a single space...low ceiling-wise but no less airy than the rest of what he was now assuming was a flat. There were two vertical windows ahead, on either side of a large king bed whose style was rustic in appearance. To the left was the door to what he supposed must be a bathroom, and to the right was a large closet in an open style design. The clothes were dark...cotton ghosts in the dim light from a desk lamp but it was one article of clothing that caught his eye. Specifically, it was red...red as blood...perhaps redder. A uniform that he recognized...straps and buckles..gaudy and obnoxious and agonizingly familiar. They passed this...moved towards the bed and-

_'-No!’_

The exclamation was out of his metaphorical mouth before he could stop it. It made Saoirse pause...really, she froze; and he could feel her fear and confusion. Shocked that he could even communicate with her, Sephiroth retreated...burrowed himself deep and envisioned walls slamming shut before him until there wasn't a trace of him left. As she wavered in her indecision he felt sick. Rooted in a little girl's mind like a poisonous seed and he felt nauseous. But he didn't want to _see_...yet what right did he have to refuse her access to her other father? He couldn't do that... couldn't demand that...it was wrong. He was left to agonize over his new state of existence as his daughter wrangled apparently titanic levels of gumption and pressed forward...past the closet and a floor to ceiling mirror that gave him the reflection of…

 _Her_.

And it was her..there was no denying her now. So small, too small to be climbing those steps. She couldn't have been older than three. Flame red hair up in a tiny, wispy bun and great, round green eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul. She was an element of each of them; if the essence of who they are could be tossed up and created into some twisted periodic table of identity. Hard lines...soft lines...metaphorical symbolisms of her fathers wrought in an individual who couldn’t possibly understand the significance of her existence at this given moment. And she shouldn’t know...would never know. She would never know him...he made peace with that...with his own silence...with his solitude. If this was his reality from here on out...he would survive it.

_”Daddy?”_

The bedsheets moved.

Specifically, they roiled; as if the individual beneath them was enmired in a sea of cotton...drowning in fabric and unable to find a foothold. Sephiroth heard Genesis curtail his crying...could practically feel his body tense up as he attempted to control his emotions. And he shouldn’t _have_ to do that. The younger man reflected on that despairingly. His redheaded...former lover shouldn’t be grieving...not this long afterwards. At the same time...he understood, because he would have been no better. And he didn’t believe in the terminology of ‘star-crossed lovers’...didn’t believe in the idealism of missing someone...of _loving_ someone so thoroughly and so wholeheartedly and deeply that their absence was soul-shattering. Logic dictated that love was a chemical reaction in the brain.

Logic..of course...had no foothold here.

Because as Genesis rose from the sheets...eyes red-rimmed and swollen and still so _blue_...logic failed him. Sephiroth was choked on the wretchedness that consumed him, the longing and the regret. He _loved_ ; even as he was positive he was dead...that this...this existence was a mere echo of himself. He loved so much it left his psyche vibrating with his partner’s distress and grief. And he wanted to take those beautiful fingers that reached out to hold their little girl...wanted to wrap them both in everything he had and apologize over and over again. He wanted to be the man he was unable to be when he was alive; the protector...the lover...the _father_. And he couldn’t-! He _couldn’t_ and the verity of it destroyed him. He wanted to reach out...wanted to touch...wanted to hold and reassure and smash every hurt he had caused Genesis beneath his feet where it deservedly belonged. He wanted to run his fingers through that thatch of red hair and say it was alright...it was all going to be alright…to say-

_”-It’s okay...it’s okay...I love you.”_

Shock was electrifying this time...to say the least.

Because now he was privy to the sight of his lover wrapped in the arms of a little girl who was doing exactly what _he_ wanted to. Like she’d heard him...like she’d felt his grief and his fear and despair and acted upon an irresistible compulsion. Genesis was tense...was vibrating with contained melancholy, but he reached for Saoirse anyway. Let out a great, sobbing breath and folded her into him...clung to her as she clung to him...like they had nothing left...like this was the only thing they could hold on to. And the dark of the room was suddenly cloistered and suffocating. Sephiroth wanted to get away because this was _damnation_. This was purgatory to a degree that he could not fathom. To forever see the impact that he would have on the lives of the two individuals in front of him...to exist and not exist…

Surely this was Hell.

_”I love you Daddy.”_

He was yanked backwards.

Specifically, Sephiroth was thrown into a white oblivion...into the soundless...warm oblivion he had known for so long. But now, it was no longer solace. Now it was merely something shivering and bleak...empty and bereft because he had _tasted_ freedom. He had tasted life. He had tasted the thick miasma of his sins...the cold horizon of his misdeeds. And no matter how much he wanted to tell himself that those deeds had been done in love the cost was too high, the grief was too great. If he had a voice, he would have howled his despair to the heavens because he could do _nothing_ about it. The Great General of Shinra’s army could do nothing for his lover and his daughter, could only know what they faced and it was agony. The universe had to be laughing at him; had to be chortling with a kind of divine derisiveness at the litany of his wrongs wrought before him.

Sephiroth couldn’t even die without knowing he had failed cataclysmically in life.

It came and went...such moments. He was privy to Saoirse’s fifth birthday; privy to seeing Genesis drink himself to ruins until Angeal had to physically drag him out of the room. Sephiroth was privileged with the ability of seeing his daughter ask her Aunt what was wrong with her father...he saw her ask Aerith what was wrong with _her_ that her only living parent should hate her so. He saw a litany of happy moments but the stale...darkened moments...the empty rooms...the feelings of inadequacy that shivered beneath the surface of his child’s cheerful demeanor were like hot brands pressed against the very fabric of his conscience. Because Sephiroth knew what that uncertainty felt like...he had felt what his daughter had felt...had wondered like she had wondered. And even when the years got better...when it was clear that Genesis was recovering...she wondered. It was a ghost in the back of her mind...not unlike him. A dark shadow of ‘could have beens’ and ‘what if’s.

The guilt of his foresight niggled at him.

Feasibly, he shouldn’t be privy to what he was privy to. And it wasn’t like he caught her in awkward moments...wasn’t like he ‘walked in’ on her mental space when he really truly shouldn’t be there. But there was a part of him that insisted that no matter the circumstance...it was like spying. He felt like an intruder in his daughter’s life; felt like an individual of questionable intent as he gazed out onto her existence in such a wishful, miserable manner. Sephiroth had not earned his place in Saoirse's life but he was still there. It was wrong...but it was also reassuring...to know she was alive, that Genesis was alive and managing. And when he saw them together...when he saw them spend time with each other...it was soothing. Not because it took away the massive consequence of his egress, but because he knew that they were managing, even if that managing was at times more than questionable.

He talked to her...usually by mistake.

Sometimes it was compulsive...especially in early years...when things were so difficult. When Saoirse was alone and thinking he couldn’t control the urge to reach out...to soothe. It was usually one-word phrases; _’it’s alright’_ or _’it’s not your fault’_ or-very rarely- _’you’re perfect as you are’_. He didn’t know if it helped...sometimes she seemed truly afraid of him...or afraid of herself. And there was never enough contact that he felt like he was a living...breathing part of her existence. If he saw her ride a bike for the first time, it wasn’t of any consequence. Saoirse would never know he had seen it, would never realize that both of her fathers had cheered for her that day. She would never know that he knew she had done well on the math test she was so worried about in fourth grade...that the score she’d taken home for Genesis to put up on the fridge had left him bursting with pride. His daughter would never know that he knew she was bullied; that every time she looked Genesis in the eyes and told him she was okay someone else knew that she wasn’t okay at all.

Sephiroth was fleeting in his moments...only made his presence known when he could feel her breaking. Sometimes it was difficult not to give her more simply because he was there...because he could. Being found out wasn’t an option, however. Genesis would want to talk to him, and he couldn’t put the burden of having some faceless, bodiless individual talk out of someone’s mouth on his progeny. That was a weight too great for anyone to bear. And he felt like a liar...felt like the most terrible person that had ever walked the earth alive or dead. The existentialism of it tortured him because the lines between right and wrong were so blurred in his particular situation. But there were times when he was absolutely grateful he was there...times when people were cruel…

...Times when people were dangerous.

There was a snippet of chronological space when she was fourteen; when she took the long way home and a group of boys were following her. He recognized them; he’d been with her in school long enough to understand that they were classmates...classmates that didn’t like her. Saoirse was desperate for friends, desperate for recognition for something other than the sins of her fathers so when they called out to her...complimented her...her compulsion was-of course-to wait and talk with them. And she was so _hopeful_ as she turned...as she caught sight of them. Sephiroth felt her smile...felt her wishfulness...her welcome and her distinct need to have friends that were her age.

But then he saw their eyes.

It was a little bit like being doused in cold water...because he _knew_ those eyes. Knew their intent from such looks being directed at him. They were wanting...but not in the right way...not in a friendly, kind, or even romantic way. Those eyes were wanting in a manner that was cruel, bent on destruction and despair. They _burned_ with retribution for something that his daughter was not guilty of. Those eyes wanted to toss her against a brick wall and smash her soul to pieces. Those eyes wanted to rip purity from her heart and dash it to the sidewalk while she begged for mercy. _Murder_ bloomed in his heart but there was nothing he could do...nothing he could prevent, there were five and she was one...nothing he could communicate except-

_**’Run!’** _

She ran.

Sephiroth wasn’t entirely sure if she ran because of him or because of them but her fear was so tangible he could taste it. It was like oil over his psychical tongue, thick and sour. Down side streets, across causeways and alleys and the mantra in their minds was _’run run run’_. It was so cohesive with his own youth...so similar to it that he could do nothing but drive it forwards...drive it downwards into her because he would _not_ conscience this. She would _not_ weather this while he could help her get away. He knew he was too much present...that she could sense him...that she could _feel_ him but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was her safety, her solace...what little of it she had. And when she sprinted up the steps to the flat...slammed the apartment door behind her and slid down the wall with her head between her knees he ‘collapsed’ in the recesses of her mind...hemorrhaging psychic pain… _grieving_ for what he could not give.

_”Who are you?!”_

She asked… _she asked_ and he fled. Turned tail and ran while his daughter trembled like a leaf in an empty apartment. While she searched every corner of her mind for her father who she did not know was her father, Sephiroth ran like chiroptera out of some blackened cave. Because it was too much...too much. Like the coward he had always been, he retreated to the white space Beyond and he did not return. Somehow, he felt like he’d always known that that was an option...that his existence within her sphere was not so much something obligatory as it was compulsory. He hadn’t been able to control it...but now he could… _now he could_ and he was not coming back. He would compromise her too much...give her too much himself and the world had seen enough of him...enough of grief and enough of death.

Sephiroth was dead.

_...But he wasn’t...not really...he wasn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Firstly. I know it's taken a long time to post this chapter, but this chapter is _vital_ to the story's progression, and the reasons may not become clear at first. This is kind of a huge facet of the plot, though we won't be seeing too much of this vein of narration at all. I wasn't sure if I was going to bring Sephiroth into this until i absolutely needed to, but (maybe thankfully) _I absolutely needed to in order for this to work. There may be grammar errors in this, my life like...took a grenade to the arse, and this chapter was hard as hell to formulate while all of this is going on._
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> _I'm aware heaven and hell are not canon but I'm not creative enough at this hour to think of alternative terms._  
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> _Thanks for reading!_  
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> **R &R**  
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> 


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, are you gonna ship out soon or they love you so much they’re just letting you grow into your desk?”

Frowning at the long, lengthy, and tedious dissertation before him, Genesis took a moment to fantasize about its imminent demise before looking up at Zack, who was leaning on his desk with a sardonic expression. In years gone by, this would have been a rare sight. During Shinra’s reign, Fair wouldn’t have ranked high enough to have a face to face conversation with him for more than a few minutes that wasn’t inundated with _’sir!’_ s, let alone languish casually upon his desk like he owned the place. The days of SOLDIER, of course, were long gone and times were different but there _were_ times when he wished he could just scream something loud enough to get the younger man out of his office. Privacy was a thing of the past; he didn’t even have a secretary. Not that he wanted or needed one, but it would have been nice to have some warning whenever someone was going to waltz into his thinking space and plaster themselves over all the hard surfaces. Zack was pleasant to be around, but he had no concept of personal boundaries. Not that _Genesis_ had ever been one to like personal boundaries, but sometimes he just wanted to get through his work alone and undisturbed.

“Don’t you know?” Genesis muttered blithely. “Even _this_ version of Administration can’t take their eyes off my ass.”

Fair snorted and pushed a paperweight off the side of the desk and into the bin below. It hit the metal surface with a crash that was both satisfying and irksome.

“Uh huh, sure. You’re what...fifty?”

The redhead paused and tilted his head to the side before fixing the younger man with his most dangerous smile.

“Do I _look_ fucking fifty to you honey?” When Zack opened his mouth to reply he lifted a hand to stop him. “ _Tch_ -before you answer that without using your brain, I suggest you contemplate deeply on the matter of whose sister you’re apparently marrying.”

Angeal’s former protegee sobered up.

“I’d say you were around eighteen, sir” he replied in a solemn tone that really wasn’t solemn at all.

Genesis blinked twice before groaning loudly.

“Get out” he grouched. “I mean it.” Throwing his hands in the air, the former SOLDIER obliged. “You’re no spring chicken either” the scarlet-haired ex-FIRST threw at his back. “The difference between you and me is that you _look_ it.”

“Keep telling yourself that old man!” was the hollered response.

Only when the door shut behind his childhood friend’s former trainee did the older man allow himself a small chuckle. There were, of course, some perks to the lack of a hierarchy; and he didn’t _dislike_ Zack...as he’d emphasized upon before. All of it was centric to healing...to recovery and re-discovery...both individual and societal. Nothing about Gaia’s current state of existence was going to be a symbiosis forever. At some point, things would change...and then they’d change again. Ideally, Genesis would have liked to have seen the continents split into respective states; each with their own publically selected representatives. Right now, the Planet didn’t have a leader...or even what remotely resembled a leader. To some degree...he understood it. The people didn’t want to be forced into a position of submission until they were absolutely sure about motive. A long time ago, he’d considered AVALANCHE, but now he was glad that he hadn’t. There was-ultimately-an extremism to both Shinra and the conservationist group….though to what extent he would never know thanks to HQ’s previous efforts in massacring them.

For the most part, universal decisions came by way of popular vote.

This was much more complicated, because public voting took a considerable amount of time to process; particularly since voting was based on topic and not on party or legislation. If a group of people wrote a proposal outlining their desire to raise the price of electricity in order to lower the economic strain on the hydropower plants, every single person in Midgar had to vote; and greater than the fifty percent had to vote in favor. Ballots sequestered to locale were normally divided by the city or province in which the bill or legislative proposal was centered. National proposals, such as changes in trade routes or fuel prices, required nationwide vote. Lazard had approached Genesis with the idea of being a member of the committee who tallied said ballots and he’d told him to go take a hike because fuck that. He didn’t dislike the idea, but he had enough work to do without worrying about the possible outcome of a bill based on his terrible arithmetic skills. Having a former Commander get into politics also seemed like a really shady move regardless of whether he wanted to do it or not.

His next deployment was sometime post midwinter.

Grimacing, Genesis signed another outpost appraisal and threw it on the massive pile next to him. He didn’t like being away from Saoirse, but she was old enough that she didn’t mind being left alone, with a friend, or with a family member. Most of the men he was stationed with knew him either from being in his previous platoon, or from training with him many, many years ago. Zack’s comment regarding his age was lackadaisical, and it held no weight because none of the men in SOLDIER who’d received mako treatments seemed to age very quickly. Add to that his semi-alien, semi-Cetra biology and he’d be perfectly comfortable walking into rock concert wearing spandex. His discussion regarding age with Angeal wasn’t something born out of vice; it was born from the observation that no matter what partner either of them chose, they would always-as far as he knew-remain the same. Voicing his concerns out loud, especially to someone who was clearly smitten with his girlfriend, was more painful than he cared to admit. It was even more painful when he met Willow, because she was sweet, generous, caring, intelligent and _perfect_ for Angeal. He supposed that the former Commander ending up with someone cute and gentle was a bit of a stereotype, and in the past he’d have ridiculed him for it. Now, however, there had been too much pain...too much suffering in the world for him to be derisive of someone’s overall goodness just because it was somehow a societal norm.

His phone went off.

Rather, his calendar went off, alerting him of his necessary appointment with the head of the East division. The shrill sound in the mostly closed space made him momentarily jump; but he recovered swiftly and began gathering up the documents required for the meeting. Monthly departmental appraisals were a pain in the ass, but they were necessary in order to ensure that things were running smoothly and nothing was leaning too far into the heavy-handed. Everyone was-quite intimately-aware that what they were trying to do now could fall into corruption as swiftly as it had come out of it. Not out of deliberate intent, but because the act of preserving order always ran a fine line between tranquility and tyranny. Control...the philosophy of control was a subtle creature; one whose inner disfigurement was as deceptive as it was detestable. A younger version of him might have walked away from it entirely, but he’d learned that you couldn’t mitigate change by running away from it. Genesis had never believed in turning tail, in forgoing strength in favor of self preservation. Nor did he believe in isolation or solitude. The same would apply if Sephiroth was still alive. Both of them were men who believed in action, and neither of them would have been able to stand each other for long amounts of time with nothing to do.

That didn’t-of course-mean he was philanthropist.

Exiting his office and swiping his key-card in order to lock it, Genesis shifted the stack of papers under his arm and pushed his hair back from his forehead. He supposed it was contradictory to his frame of mind to declare that he didn’t actually give two shits about whether the people were happy or not. There _were_ people, however, within the population that he cared about, so it worked in his favor to advocate for the greater good. Doing it on a singular scale, or even a selective scale, was still ethical prejudice...so he did the best with what he was given. That didn’t mean that he was doing this by himself, obviously. The amount of manpower behind deconstructing a military regime and building something entirely new in its place was boggling. The former Commander was-effectively-quite ecstatic to have avoided the majority of the politics surrounding the reform save for his own trial.

It was impossible to change the entirety of HQ’s exterior appearance.

Architecturally, the process would have been a nightmare and a half. Traversing the sweeping, glass-laden byway that would lead him to Administration, Genesis wryly acknowledged that at least Shinra’s flag wasn’t flying over everything anymore. The reactors were also gone; much of their parts had been repurposed for the hydroelectric plant below plate. Trees were planted in place of them, but it’d taken several tries before the soil would even begin to support organic life. Much of the botanical work around Midgar was courtesy of Shinra’s ecologists, geneticists, and chemists. With no orders regarding the inhumane mutation of this or that person, it turned out that they made a rather mean gardening team. Finding DNA strands of different plant phylum that were hardy enough to withstand the radiation-desecrated soil near the reactors was also a challenge and it paid well. The SOLDIER barracks had been removed; they weren’t exactly far from the definition of an eyesore, and there weren’t enough men left to excuse the continuity of their existence in the first place. Most of HQ’s ground-level facilities had been demolished or refurbished for public need. It was a little strange to look out...to acknowledge the still-present, dizzying depth of it all while looking at the explosion of greenery just below...dotted here and there by ergonomic facilities made mostly of environmentally-friendly material. Midgar was similarly different; with patches of growth every few blocks that were as jarring as they were encouraging.

“Excuse me.”

Genesis nearly ran straight into a wall.

Mostly because the voice that spoke was so familiar he felt the need to knock some sense into himself before he looked at the owner. Svelt...velvety...not quite as baritone but similarly smooth and painfully deadpan. He did not-thankfully-do any such thing but he did drop the stack of papers he was carrying, which was a remarkable mishap in of itself. Clearing his throat, the redhead took a moment to collect himself before turning to face his extremely abrupt conversational companion. When he did, he rather wanted to sink into the floor because the _physical_ similarities were-if possible-even worse than the vocal similarities. The eyes were comforting; mostly because they were a very nice red that reminded him of his old uniform. When it came to facial features...he was _not_ comforted because they were angular...strong, and cat-like in a manner that was all-too painful and very much unwelcome. The black hair, at least, offset this...even if it was long and shiny and silky and just too fuck-all pretty for anyone to be having on their head appropriately. The aforementioned was pulled up from said angular features with a scarlet bandana. And who the hell wore bandanas anyway?

He was tall.

This wasn’t saying a lot, because Genesis was pretty damn tall, but they were of equal height and it was off putting to say the least. Slim, angular...almost younger in appearance, but his stance gave the impression of greater years. He was strangely dressed, for the current time anyway. Most people had forgone the whole buckle-and-strap fashion statement when Shinra collapsed, but apparently this particular person had not gotten the memo because his-assumably-kevlar outfit was riddled with silver buckles and straps and stupid high boots with glittering clasps. The former Commander didn’t miss the formidable gun strapped to his waist but that hardly mattered in the face of the asinine and extremely movement-hindering cloak clasped to his shoulders. It was the same color as the bandana and for a moment consisting of extreme emotionalism and hysteria, the redhead wanted to choke him with it simply for having it on. An onyx eyebrow slowly inched its way up a pale forehead as he was busy having a conniption, and this too was so familiar Genesis found himself wanting to do terrible, _violent_ things to a complete stranger.

Thankfully, logic won out over insanity.

“Oh.”

 _Oh_. Somewhat furiously, the blue-eyed ex-FIRST reflected that ‘oh’ was not a great way to make a first impression. Mostly because it was a retarded statement, but because now he felt like vomiting spectacularly all over himself and all over the person in front of him simply because they were existing within the same proximity. Swallowing, the redhead exhaled and closed his eyes...took a deep breath and let it out again in order to ground himself. When the momentary nausea passed, he lifted disbelieving lids only to be privy to the sight of the strangely familiar stranger trying to collect his paperwork.

“You really don’t have to do that” he muttered, kneeling and resigning himself to the task of organizing everything later.

“I apologize for the disturbance” was the flat reply.

“Uh, _shit_ ” Genesis finished explosively. “Look, I’m sorry, you scared the hell out of me for personal reasons, but that’s really not your fault. What’re you looking for?”

It took him a while to reply.

Specifically, it took him the whole five minute process of picking up the redhead’s paperwork.. Somewhat grouchily, Genesis acknowledged that he appeared to be thinking deeply over his reply. He’d have been somewhat happier if he’d opted to ignore him, because he really had no desire to start a conversation with him in the first place. Maybe the next person he ran into wouldn’t have a panic attack and then subsequently force him to pick up his monthly evaluation. Standing once more, the redhead nodded his thanks as long, adroit fingers handed over what remained of the respective documents. Once this was done, his companion cleared his throat.

“I’m looking for Genesis Rhapsodos” was the calm continuation. “My name is Vincent Valentine.”

Genesis dropped his paperwork again.

That wasn’t entirely accurate. He dropped _some_ of his paperwork, not all of it, but it was still ridiculous and annoying. As he bent to retrieve it, he wondered if it was something that came with age, but it was really hard to tell and there were more pressing matters to attend to. _’Pressing matters’_ mostly pertaining to the fact that Sephiroth’s maybe-Dad maybe-not-Dad was currently standing across from him declaring that he wanted to speak with him. His brain insisted that this wasn’t a bad thing, but his conscience was howling that this was _so bad_ , and that he needed Angeal, which was horrid and humiliating and he wasn’t going to tell anyone. There was also the fact that Vincent was currently looking at him like he was shy of a few brain cells. This time, he stayed on the floor a bit longer than was likely necessary; mostly because he was fighting the urge to curl into a ball and wish everything around him away.

“He’s dead” Genesis finally spat out flatly. When he’d finally gathered enough gumption to raise his head, he was privy to Valentine looking confused. “S-Sephiroth” he gritted out. “He’s _dead_ , and has been, over ten years now.”

The pain that flickered across that impassive visage in response solidified some of his suspicions. It was, however, an acknowledged pain; one dealt with...not unlike his own. It was something haunted, something deeply personal and deeply sorrowful. Somehow, it was different from his own, but no less intimate. Getting up again took a monumental effort...seemed to require concentration and focus with every iota of his person...but he managed it.

“You’re fifteen years late, you square asshole” he snarled. “And you were pretty fucking tardy before that.”

The silence between them wasn’t tense...not really. It was something agonized...something deeply personable but at the same time fraught with resentment. And he didn’t _want_ to feel akin to the man before him, but he did. If anyone would feel the loss of his partner even half as deeply as he did...it would be Vincent. The problem was that in the short time he had known Sephiroth, he’d made every effort to _get to know_ him. And sure, they’d started off on the wrong foot; maybe even the wrong foot of the wrong foot...but he’d never actually walked away from the younger man. For all his habitual nastiness, for all his wrongs, he was consistent….and then he’d _cared_. He couldn’t conscience being in the same room as someone who had possibly cared and then left anyway. This was, of course, taking the great leap of assuming that Vincent was Sephiroth’s father. But even the _possibility_ of being a father would-so he assumed-be enough to make someone have at least half of a sense of right and wrong.

“If you could point me in the right direction…” Vincent’s reply was stiff, laced with a kind of acerbic bite that he was all-too familiar with.

The snort that flew out of Genesis’ nostrils was as derisive as it was uncontrollable.

“What? No one told you I was a foul-mouthed, angry, bitter redhead?” he sneered. When the dark-haired man looked confused, he forced himself to compartmentalize a bit; took a deep breath and let it out explosively. “I’m Genesis” he said flatly. “And look, I despise you, and I know we’ve never met, but it’s the principle of the thing. So tell me what you want so we can both get on with our lives.”

Crimson eyes squinted at him.

“You don’t look like you’re in your forties.”

“Yeah, and you don’t look like you’re pushing seventy so sue me” the former Commander muttered. “Looks like the anti-aging thing is pretty contagious.” Tucking the offending papers under his arm to prevent their continued apparent attraction with the floor, he worried his lip. “But I don’t think you’re here to talk about the fact that we’re a physical anomaly so maybe we could cut to the chase a little bit faster.” He paused. “I get that raising a kid is hard, I have one, but I don’t get abandoning your kid to do fuck all for who knows how many years.”

Valentine looked distinctly uncomfortable and even more put on the spot.

“There was no concrete proof that I was Sephiroth’s father” he replied, turning away for the first time and striding to the massive windows before them. The buckles on his boots made a soft, metallic sound as he did so. “And I failed...monumentally, at my task when it came to protecting Lucrecia.”

Genesis swallowed, loudly. Because he was _not_ prepared for this conversation no matter what way he wanted to slice it. He needed a drink-possibly several-before he could even coherently process what was going on. Deciding that the specifics weren’t important, he plowed onward.

“So what’s your ace in the hole?”

Half-turning, the older man’s brows drew together...his forehead furrowing in confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

The redhead gritted his teeth.

“What’s your _excuse?_ For the whole deadbeat Dad thing? And why the hell are you here now?”

For a moment, those crimson eyes were defensive. Something moved behind them...something vicious and untamed and deeply primal.Genesis had been out of combat for a long time. It didn’t change his efficiency, of course, but he also didn’t know what he was dealing with, and he didn’t want to have a confrontation here...in a building full of innocent people. Still...there was something in him that answered to it, something that was constantly bereft and seeking punishment for that bereftness. Whatever pain the individual across from him had to offer...he wanted it...he wanted it _a lot_ , and he didn’t care what was left of him once they were done. He was aware that this was an unhealthy train of thought, but it was also something repressed...something he’d kept inside of him for years only to have it simmer into something so richly suffused with self-loathing and hatred he could barely stand to look at himself half the time. Genesis was aware of the gift that was his daughter; but he was also aware of the fact that he was inexplicably ruined in ways that no one...not even a beautiful, brilliant little girl could fix.

“Hojo wasn’t the only scientist in the labs” was the reply at length. “Before” he emphasized, when there was no response. “...But I think you know that. My father, Grimoire, worked with Lucrecia...until his death. Lucrecia came into my care when she was working for Hojo.” There was the rustle of fabric as the older man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze still fixed on the windows...and that which was beyond. “I discovered that there was an accident in the labs where my father and Lucrecia were working, it was the cause of his death. Previously, I hadn’t known the specifics, but she blame herself for it...distanced herself from me and married Hojo.” Here, at least, Valentine appeared to struggle with his words. “Despite...their union...we continued with our physical relationship. She was lonely, and I…” those pale lips broke into a grimace that was nearly a snarl. “I _loved_ her. Foolishly. I don’t think Lucrecia wanted to be loved, not particularly. Or at the very least...she thought love was a fallacy in the face of progression, of forward motion. Maybe she thought someday she’d-”

“-I don’t care about what that bitch felt, or what she was too cowardly to feel” Genesis snapped. “Get on with it.”

Crimson eyes disappeared underneath onyx lashes for a moment before Vincent continued.

“When it was discovered she was pregnant, I fought for her to leave...but Hojo...he intervened. And when I wouldn’t desist, he...dealt with me as he saw fit. I won’t bore you with the details of the experiments, most of it was fairly straightforward.” A black leather-clad hand rose up to clasp the gold-plated gauntlet of the opposite arm. “Somehow, he found a way to inject Chaos-infused mako into my body.” Another pause. “Chaos was...a WEAPON. Designed to rise up when the Planet needed him...when destruction was needed. As his vessel, I had no control over him, no ability to regulate his instinctual need for obliteration. My father discovered the protomateria, a method for controlling Chaos, before I was assigned to the manor. Lucrecia was the one who found a way to use it on me...in order to control the monster within.” He exhaled. “By the time I woke up...it was too late. Lucrecia was gone...presumed dead, her child born into a world of pain and resentment and cruelty. And I...I was a beast, barely in control of my faculties...barely able to conscience my own existence let alone consider the fact that I might be the sire of another. So I locked myself in a coffin...in the Manor, to preserve the world of the atrocities I might possibly commit if released.”

Genesis snorted, he really couldn’t help it.

“Seems like self-sacrifice is hereditary” he remarked, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.

“I don’t-I don’t _know_ for sure if-”

“-You’re basically a goth Sephiroth” the redhead cut in exasperatedly. “Like if Seph defected and got into heavy metal and guns and hair dye you’d be Siamese twins. So you can stop trying to delude yourself there as well.” He didn’t miss the agony that came with his statement; the monumental sense of loss and grief that crossed the impassive visage before him was almost palatable. “And now he’s dead” the redhead continued numbly. “And you’ll never know, and it’s all your fault.” Vincent opened his mouth but Genesis wasn’t done, he plowed onward. “It’s my fault too, because I didn’t...I didn’t see him, not when it mattered anyway. But I stayed, even when it was rough, even when I was terrified we were both going to be hurt beyond repair. So I’m going to ask you again; _why are you here now?”_

The pause that followed his statement, was-if possible-even more fraught with resentment than the first one. He recognized, however, that it was mostly his resentment, and not the other way around. Anger was his most prevalent emotion; because a _coffin_. The heinousness of it almost made it comical. It wasn’t...however, not in the least. The reality that Sephiroth’s father had been wiling away his life in a coffin while his son suffered was an ugly truth that was red hot in his chest. Because _he_ had loved Sephiroth in his stead; had loved him with every besotted, hopeless bone in his body. _Genesis_ had loved Sephiroth, and that love had destroyed them as surely as it had made them whole.

“I woke when they were demolishing the Manor” was the halting reply. “Last week. Chaos was...gone. I don’t know why...and I don’t care. The demolition order came in...I spoke with the project manager. It took me a few days to understand everything that culminated into this. When he mentioned you, I wanted to meet you, because I owe you a debt. You were there when I wasn’t. And I have nothing to offer you, no reassurances, no wealth and no hope...but you should not have had to suffer this.” The laugh that followed was dull and lifeless. “My son is dead and I never met him...never knew him. I don’t know how he lived...who he was, and I think I should at least _try_ to understand who he was in life before I accept his death.”

“Loving Seph wasn’t a _sufferance_ ” Geness spat, his voice choked. “Loving him was a privilege, a gift...something wealth couldn’t touch..something...something so-” he stopped because if he kept going, he was going to fall apart here...in front of someone who couldn’t possibly understand the pain he was in. “-You wanna know how Sephiroth lived...he _suffered_...he suffered his entire life. And I did with him...for a little while...we suffered together, and then he died suffering...as he lived.” By the time he was done speaking, his verbiage had devolved into a snarl. _”Because you were a coward.”_

The next words he spoke were forced...thickly laced with pain, poisonously resentful...but he got them out regardless.

“And y’know, I’d love to be the piece of shit that tells you to get out of my life, to fuck off and take your sorrows back to your pissy coffin and nail the lid back on. I’d love to tell you to jump off a cliff, but I’m not going to.” The redhead took a deep breath. “Because I have a daughter who deserves to have a grandfather in her life, and I’m not the person who gets to make that judgement. I love and respect her enough that I recognize that she should have the ability to make her own choices.” The former commander grimaced. “I’m not going to be like you, and deprive my child of her ability to choose because _I_ think I know better. So why don’t you come to dinner on Friday, at my friend’s mother’s house and meet her, you massive sack of shit.”

Vincent looked, for the lack of a better word, dumbfounded.

Genesis was a little dumbfounded with himself, but he was too much of a wreck to really examine the details. He’d go to the meeting, he decided, because he needed some form of normalcy to hang onto even if he felt like he was shriveling inside. Moving forward was the only thing he’d ever known...since… _then_. But forward motion only pushed you so far, only kept you going for so long before you were forced to face the fact that despite your progress, you were still something crushed and splintered by your reality. And that reality was that Sephiroth was gone...and he was here talking to his father, inviting him to dinner to meet his granddaughter when she would never know the man he had brought into the world and then abandoned.

“I would need an address.”

This was said stiffly, almost formally, but the immense gratefulness in those crimson eyes made him want to choke the life right out of them. Because he _shouldn’t_ be grateful. This was the result of his neglect. This emptiness...this sense of terrible void that would never be filled. Genesis gave the address and hit the floor running; practically sprinted his way to Administration so he could lock himself in a bathroom and lean against the sink while his carefully constructed illusion of normalcy shattered into pieces. And he had to go home in a few hours; had to be able to put himself back together so he wouldn’t worry Saoirse, but he didn’t know how he was going to do it. It didn’t make it any better that Aerith chose that moment to call, that she called him and then called him again when he sent it straight to voicemail. It didn’t help that when he picked up she sounded desperate, worried, and yet at the same time hopeful.

 _”I need to talk to you”_ she said frantically over the line before he could even open his mouth. _”Genesis...there’s something in the Lifestream...something different.”_

Standing in an industrial bathroom with a headache the size of a planet...Genesis dropped his phone in the trash when she spoke again;

_”Genesis...it feels like **him** ”_

_**”It feels like Sephiroth.”** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : So, this chapter didn't go at all like I had planned it to. For one, Vincent was never a facet in this story, not like this, and not so soon. I think this could make it a bit _weird_. But I also think I know what I want to do with him so...yay? I think his...what...his entrance is sort of abrupt, but I didn't want to integrate him slowly either-mostly because I didn't really have a plan for him at all-so Vincent has now entered the playing field of his own will and accord and now we have to deal with it. The part with Aerith was going to be a lot more detailed as well. This really isn't a preherald to Sephiroth's immediate return. We're still looking at several chapters before we even get into that, or even the process of that, because I think Genesis is going to be very reticent pursuing that. But, thank you for reading, and I'm sorry if this chapter was like...a massive angst bin. 
> 
>  
> 
> **R &R**


	5. Chapter 5

Angeal didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

For one, he wasn’t a dinner party host, and had never envisioned himself as one. And, really, this wasn’t a dinner _party_ ; Genesis had emphasized on the fact that all of it was strictly informal, sorely social. That didn’t change the fact that there was currently someone in his mother’s home wearing a suit, sitting at the dinner table looking squarely like he was there for a job interview. ‘Awkward’ didn’t cover the entirety of the situation. Really, it was making light of it, because the whole affair, ever since said individual had stepped through the door, was teeth grindingly gawky. If he wasn’t there for emotional support, he’d have already left. That, and the fact that he was somewhat certain Willow might never speak to him again, because she had emphasized that no matter what the circumstances, this was important. And it _was_ important, it was just very strange and very stiff, and he hadn’t felt this way since he was six years old sitting at the dining room table in Rhapsodos Manor.

It didn’t help that Genesis was being squarely horrid.

 _’Horrid’_ when it came to Angeal’s childhood friend was more along the lines of _’atrocious’_ but that was neither here nor there. And he understood it...a little bit. Vincent Valentine was the remainder of the shadowed vestiges of Shinra’s past. More than that, he was at least a little bit culpable for everything that had gone on during HQ’s reign of terror. This included Sephiroth, of course, which made everything quite a bit worse. When the redhead approached him with the concept of dinner with the deceased General's potential father, his first instinct was to say no. Because it was-in effect-a terrible idea. Not necessarily terrible in the sense that his childhood friend was being astonishingly generous and outrageously mature, but in the sense that that generosity and maturity could and would reach an end.

It probably didn't help that Saorise had taken to Vincent.

Clenching a napkin in his fingers, the former Commander exhaled as enthusiastically as he possibly could without making himself actually sound exasperated. ‘Taken’ was a relative term, of course. But compared to his childhood friend’s demeanor Vincent and Saorise might as well have been devoted confidants. Smiling, asking polite questions, and listening didn’t exactly qualify as the aforementioned but the comparison was there. Every time his unofficial niece asked the dark-haired gunslinger a question, his former comrade glared at Vincent like he wanted to rip out his throat. This was followed by a wounded-quickly morphing into disappointed-expression leveled at his daughter. This was probably the stupidest facet of it all, because Genesis had _raised_ Saoirse to be forgiving. Realistically, if Saoirse was _not_ forgiving Angeal didn't think her relationship with her father would have survived the years of subtle neglect he had imposed upon her merely for being born. And it was more complicated than that...Angeal didn't blame the redhead, not really. But the stark truth of it was that while Saoirse could be as fiery as her father, she was as carefully considerate, immensely thoughtful, and incurably shrewd as her other father as well. Sephiroth very rarely acted on the impulse of his emotions; when he did, it was catastrophic. But if the girl sitting across from him had any of the General's tactical brilliance, she would observe and learn first, and act later.

Vincent knew his place.

Angeal supposed that much was his saving grace. The crimson-eyed man was careful in terms of any topic of conversation; he didn't push too hard for anything, and he was quick to help with anything that involved the gathering whatsoever. Someone with less mental fortitude and less of an ability to discern verity would likely see it as pandering. The blue-eyed ex-SOLDIER was sincerely relieved that in this-at least-Genesis did not pass judgement. If Sephiroth came up-and he did, twice-Vincent was quick to fall silent. He didn't offer an opinion over that of those who had known him better. Instead, he listened raptly to what others had to say. Angeal had barely known his father, but he had deeply mourned his death. Gillian was never the same afterwards, there was always a little something missing from his mother's eyes..like her husband had taken a bit of her down to the ground with him.

The absence in Genesis' gaze wasn't much different.

It was a more violent grief, however... something that howled at you if you looked too long at it. In the presence of his partner's father, that void was a cacophonous, screaming abyss. Vincent was the picture of his progeny; his mannerisms, his careful speech, even the way he looked over his shoulder as if habitually checking his six. The first time the gunslinger smiled-at Saoirse, of course-Genesis shattered the glass he was holding and had to stumble up from the table to get a dish towel and a replacement. Because Vincent smiled with his mouth, but he smiled more with his eyes. They crinkled at the edges, exuded a kind of warmth while his lips moved very little. It was a mirror image of the General's smile; like glancing into a looking glass and watching a phantom move through it. Upon observing it, Angeal felt a shiver slither down his spine that was at once nostalgic and uneasy. Aerith followed her brother to the kitchen and came back pale. When the owner of the Buster Sword tried to catch her eye, she shook her head. Genesis came back composed but with the inner air of someone splintered apart. If you weren't looking, you'd miss it, but something fractured….

...What it was exactly, remained unclear.

The whole of it culminated at three in the afternoon, with Vincent arriving thirty minutes beforehand which prompted Gillian to make him cook while she talked. It would have been funny if the circumstances weren't ferociously dismal. Willow was, if possible, the gentlest with the older man but she was also a therapist. There were times when Angeal wasn't entirely sure if she was talking to him or subconsciously working through a motivational interviewing session with him. He supposed this was the best facet of everything because if his girlfriend's friendliness failed her she could make up for it with professionalism. Vincent was bizarrely traumatized in a way that came off as something vaguely clerical with a hefty dose of fatalism and Angeal was not touching that with a ten foot pole. He had-at the risk of sounding callous and cruel-enough to deal with. It was a little bit unfair, really. They’d done their time processing, shouldered and then managed their grief, horror, and despair. Vincent was like a fine cut to the Achilles tendon; like a drop of blood in a well of clear, cool water. Things weren’t, and probably wouldn’t ever be, perfect...but they’d had balance.

One glance at Genesis was enough to tell him that that balance was destroyed.

Shooting a surreptitious glance at Willow, who gave him a crooked half-smile, Angeal reflected that this was not his decision in the end. He couldn’t force his friend to go back on his word, and as much as this might hurt the redhead, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Saorise was getting another family member out of this; because while Genesis was a fantastic father, he couldn’t cover every single scope on the spectrum. They were all family; they had all supported each other. He was open to supporting Vincent, but he didn’t want to do it at the expense of his best friend’s sanity. At the same time, he acknowledged that only his best friend had the ability to make that call, and right now he was giving the green light.

It wasn’t easy to be benevolent.

Angeal was forthcoming by nature. He enjoyed being open and honest, because dishonesty was not something he appreciated in others. Therefore, it was only logical that he exude the same kind of careful understanding. At the same time, there was a part of him that was deeply resentful of Vincent in a manner that was protective of Genesis...in a manner that understood Genesis’ viewpoint. The man seated at the table before him had chosen flight over fatherhood. Nothing could assuage that. For all that his redheaded former comrade had drank and fucked and moaned himself into oblivion, he hadn’t turned tail and scrambled for the hills when it came to raising his daughter. There was absolutely nothing Saorise could throw at him that Genesis couldn’t handle and there were times when Angeal was dazzled purely by his sense of perseverance. The redhead could come home from a bender and get up at four in the morning to make sure that his little girl had the best birthday possible even if he wouldn’t remember the half of it. He would take Saoirse to school when he could barely sit in the driver's seat as a result of whatever seedy hole he’d managed to lose himself in the night before. And maybe his priorities were a little screwed, but he was still present. So when Angeal looked at Vincent...he didn’t understand...but he did.

Angeal didn’t know if he could be as strong as Genesis were their positions reversed.

‘Strong’ was a relative terminology, regardless. People dealt with their travesties in different, sometimes equally inwardly destructive but no less detrimental ways. Maybe going to ground was what Vincent needed in order to preserve what little was left of himself after serving Shinra for so long...maybe there hadn’t been anything of him left at the time. There was no telling what Hojo had done to him in the labs. Angeal couldn’t imagine that it was any worse than what Sephiroth had endured, but he knew what the mad scientist was capable of, and the Turks weren’t privy to as much-if any-mako like SOLDIERS were. There were times when Angeal considered the fact that mako had perhaps enhanced his-and Genesis’-ability to survive. He’d seen men die...traumatized by weeks out in the field, refusing to eat anything, starving themselves to death...for far less. And he didn’t like to give credit to that which had ruined the world in the first place, but he was forced to acknowledge that there was, at least, something there.

Dinner ended.

Gradually...it ended gradually. Gillian began to clean up the plates and Zack jumped in to help. Saorise and Vincent remained at the table, caught in a discussion that seemed to be rather serious. Genesis floated off to the liquor cabinet with a vacant expression and Willow had to take a phone call from her urgent priority contact list. Feeling a little bit like he’d been forced to run a very tense marathon, Angeal gave a hand with the dishes for a while before feeling like he was hovering more than he was actually helping. In the end, he ended up on the deck by himself...looking out over the housing project to the now mako-bereft glow of midgar. Most of the residences in the area were generally the same; bungalow style and semi-detached...squatting low to the _very_ new grass. Someone came by twice a week to mow the lawn at first, but Angeal enjoyed the mundanity of it so he waived the fee and started doing it himself...sometimes for his mother, and sometimes for the other neighbors if they asked. It was-as far as suburbs went-a very safe area. Occasionally he got the opportunity to patrol it, and when he couldn’t, his fellow officers reported very little. There was the occasional domestic disturbance, sometimes a robbery, but none involving firearms and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that.

“I need to talk to you.”

Aerith was wearing a simple shirt dress; blue up top and yellow at the bottom. It went well with the canary colored bow she was using to keep the wealth of her hair away from her face. Observing her, Angeal reflected that there were times he still forgot that she and Genesis were siblings. They were so different, but in some facets, they were very alike. Zack’s fiancee had a will that was practically immovable when she put her mind to it. She was innovative, didn’t stay in the lines, and she was undeniably clever. There were times when he wryly wondered how his former protegee had landed someone so compelling. But then Zack would laugh...would draw her in and put a gentle hand on her shoulder...like she was made of butterflies and stardust, and she would smile at him like he was the sun...and he understood. There was also no denying the fact that Zack was always there, no matter what. Some might credit Angeal with such steadfastness; but he hadn’t chosen his former pupil because he was easy to train. No, Angeal had chosen Zack because so much of his youthful self was reflected back at him when they spoke with one another. Angeal felt very much the ‘big brother’ figure to Zack, more so than he did a mentor. They shared the same values not out of practice, but out of a similarity of character. That wasn’t to say they were the same, but their sense of integrity, the desire to do the right thing...that was what had made him so determined to be a good instructor to his charge.

“There’s nothing I could have said to stop him” Angeal said at length, shifting somewhat and leaning on the railing before him. For a moment, Aerith’s expression morphed into that of confusion, and then turned-surprisingly-to guilt. Focusing on her fully, the older man turned to face her and raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing _you_ could have said either” he added a bit uncertainly.

“I know” she said quietly, tucking a stray flyaway hair behind her ear and sinking down into an armchair across from him. “And I don’t like it, but that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.” When the former Commander gestured for her to go on, she shook her head and closed her eyes. “It’s going to sound _crazy._ ”

Allowing himself a wry chuckle, Angeal averted his gaze and watched as a motorcycle broke free of the cloistered space of the housing project and made its way to the city; dust kicking up in its wake as the roar of the motor descended into a buzz, and then to a distant hum.

“I think there’s very little at this point that you could tell me that would sound remotely crazy” he replied kindly.

Something rustled in the begonias to the fore of the porch as he awaited Aerith’s answer. Further investigation revealed the source of the noise to be a rather overlarge rabbit. It was strange to see wildlife...even now. Such occurrences were sparse; it wasn’t like the landscape had had an exorbitant amount of time to recover. Some of the animal activity around Midgar was courtesy of other places on Gaia; those less ravaged by the blight of Shinra’s regime. There were times when he-quite bitterly-wondered how he had missed the death of the Planet’s ecosystem. Now that it was all behind them, it was very obvious, but the fact that he’d been so blind to something so vital ate at him more than he’d like to admit.

“...I...I can sense Sephiroth...in the Lifestream.”

He wanted to say it wasn’t unusual.

Exhaling, rotating himself once more-slowly, this time-to face the woman before him, Angeal reflected that he wanted to say that of course she would feel Sephiroth in the Lifestream…Sephiroth was, after all, _dead_. But Aerith’s expression said that this was not usual, that this was not a commonplace anomaly that she could discern merely because of her powers. Genesis had shunned any possible connection to his Cetra heritage for this very reason; he didn’t want to run into the dregs of his dead lover while he was in contact with the Planet. In his words _’I have enough fucking ghosts in my head without contending with a plausible hoard of the dead’._ Letting his fingers lift to grasp the cuff of his dinner jacket; the former Commander closed his eyes and shook his head, which was a direct contradiction with the word that left his mouth.  
“Explain.”

Aerith’s hesitation was palatable, and he did get it...he really did. They were both aware of the fact that this could dredge up old hurts, _more_ hurts...for the sake of absolutely nothing. But Aerith was also aware of the fact that _he_ was the individual that had never found the General’s body...that it was he who had dredged through crimson-drenched snow to find absolutely nothing in the wake of the annihilation of what was-so he thought-one of the greatest loves to ever walk the Planet. It was he who had sunk to his knees in the sea of gore before him to despair in uncertain certainty of the truth he would need to bring back to Midgar. If anyone would listen to her...he would.

He just didn’t know if he wanted to.

“Before…” Aerith faltered and cleared her throat. “Initially, I felt Sephiroth...when he was alive. Everyone has a little of the Planet in them. I never really took the chance to get to know him...so I was never really familiar with what he felt like...but I knew him well enough by the time he died.” Confused, Angeal opened his eyes and leveled her with a strange look and she flushed. “Genesis...we’re both part Cetra, I can’t sense him, so I could never tell if they were alive back then if I looked for him...I only knew to look for Sephiroth...so that’s what I did...all the time. When he-when Sephiroth-” This time she visibly struggled with herself, and he let her have her moment of grief. “-When he _passed_ , he disappeared.” Aerith took a deep breath. “That doesn’t happen” she said firmly. “It just doesn’t. When people go into the Lifestream, they lose their bodies but they don’t lose that part of the Planet they take with them...the part that is singularly theirs. And I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe the Jenova cells consumed him...tore him apart.” She shuddered, and Angeal suddenly wanted to hug her. “I thought,” she said in a choked voice. “That Sephiroth was gone forever, and I didn’t know how to tell Genesis that he wouldn’t see him after-!”

“-You couldn’t have” Angeal said hastily, moving forward to kneel and place a hand on her shoulder. When Aerith looked stubbornly miserable, he squeezed gently. “How would you know how to say that?” he said quietly. “When would there have been a right time?” The guilt that rose to swallow him was immeasurable. “You _carried_ that?” he asked hoarsely. _”All this time?”_. Her lip trembled before she appeared to make a monumental effort to reign herself in. “You shouldn’t have” he said desperately, his tone at once incredulous and a very poor attempt to breathlessly soothe. “Zack” he said desperately. “Zack would have-”

“-I love Zack” Aerith said, and when she smiled it was watery. “I love him so much, but Zack has a very big mouth.” She patted Angeal’s knee. “And I know you’re a good listener, Angeal. You’re a good friend, a good man...but you and I both know you would have told Genesis.”

He wanted to deny it.

He couldn’t.

Angeal would have told Genesis because the redhead would never have forgiven him if he didn’t. And he’d have wheedled it out of him, like he always did. He was terrible at keeping secrets from the redhead because of the way they’d grown up. They’d shared everything. No matter how much the truth might have hurt the older man, he’d have told him out of respect, out of love, and because he didn’t want to betray his trust. None of them, _none of them_ , could have shouldered the burden of such a truth without turning to the one person that truth would obliterate. It made him faintly sick to acknowledge that his loyalty to his friend went beyond that friend’s livelihood. Sitting back, Angeal tried to process what was being said to him.

“You can feel him now” he said slowly. “What does that mean?”

Aerith took another moment to collect herself.

“You should know” she said in a voice that was distinctly nasally. “That Sephiroth...he doesn’t feel dead.” When the older man looked skeptical she waved a hand. “You can tell the difference, when you’re accustomed to it. People who are dead...they don’t feel much...they don’t think very much. Sephiroth is...he’s always thinking...he’s always reaching around something...always very _present_. People with that kind of activity in the Lifestream...well, frankly, usually they still have bodies.” She looked squarely at Angeal. “Sephiroth feels to me like you feel to me, here, now, standing before me. He feels like he’s alive...he’s just somewhere else.” Her gaze became distant. “I’ve felt him...before. And I really didn’t recognize him, because he was in and out...fleeting. He was _going_ someplace all the time, and I couldn’t follow him wherever he went...so I just thought it was...an echo. I thought maybe his death had caused some type of...wave.” She blinked. “Like how an earthquake has aftershocks. But then he settled...in the Lifestream I mean. He stayed...I don’t know why, and then I recognized him.”

Pushing away his monumental disbelief, Angeal pressed further.

“But how would you know to look?” he asked quietly. “What drove you to…” he trailed off as the truth came to him as he spoke. Aerith was looking at him like she knew exactly where his ruminations had taken him.

“Genesis is my brother” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. “I _love_ him. Watching him go through this was like dying...and I know that I don’t always show it. I didn’t want to worry Zack, didn’t want to worry anyone really. Talking to the Planet...it’s how I’ve always processed things...understood how things work. And Sephiroth-” she broke off again and shook her head. “-Sephiroth had a way of connecting with people, even if he didn’t particularly like it. He could walk into a room and every head would turn and look at him. Genesis has the same effect, but it’s full of fire...Sephiroth...Sephiroth feels like a thunderhead rolling in on a spring afternoon. He’s so big, it’s hard to miss him.”

Anxiety forced him to move.

Getting up, Angeal began to pace the porch; his mind working all the while. The idea of it was unconscionable. More than that, it was _dangerous_. Even as his will tried to bend itself towards the concept of hope, he wrenched it away. Not for himself, but for Genesis. Approaching the redhead with the idea was ludicrous...but hiding it from him was worse. It was-if possible-the worst situation he had ever found himself in on the worst of days in the worst of situations. There was a part of him that acknowledged that he would have to tell Genesis or both of them would forever carry this uncertainty, this sense of unknowing. They would need the redhead’s permission to do this, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Neither of them could just disappear for no reason whatsoever to pursue something that was possibly fruitless, and they were both terrible at lying.

“...Have you told him?”

“I’ve tried.” Aerith’s voice was hushed. “I’ve tried, but he doesn’t want to hear it, and I don’t really blame him.”

“I don’t either” Angeal said weakly.

They sat there for a while longer, until someone put on the radio and both were shaken out of a sort of disbelieving numbness. Aerith stood and mumbled something that he was too distressed to catch before making her way back into the house, and he was-once again-left alone with his thoughts. The view of Midgar seemed somehow bleak now...seemed laden with a sense of desperate urgency that he couldn’t act upon. And Angeal was a slave to hopefulness, because it was all he had carried with him when Shinra had fallen. He had hoped for something better for the people who had lived there, hoped for something better for the people he cared about, hoped that he could recover enough to appreciate life once again. In this, at least, hope was cruel, because now he could not shake the sense that if he didn’t do something he would regret it.

Going back in took a considerable amount of bravery.

Mostly because he was afraid of what he was going to walk into, but he did it anyway. Gillian was leaning against the kitchen counter talking to Willow while they looked over a magazine whose contents went entirely over his head. Both women shot him a smile, which he returned with a kind of uncertainty, before he continued his perusal of the room. Vincent and Saorise were still sitting at the dining room table, but Saorise’s eyes were red...and the gunslinger was pale...the grief in his eyes palatable. There was distance between them now, but it was an understanding sort of distance; like they were both processing what the other had said...trying to come to terms with it. Zack was in the living room with Aerith, both talking in hushed but complacent tones. Angeal guessed that she must have told him, because the younger man looked like he’d rather like to gut himself open and was only refraining from doing so by hugging his girlfriend.

Genesis was on the porch.

Specifically, he was on the opposite porch with a bottle of vodka and a vacant expression that was too telling for his liking. The view here didn’t look at anything but more housing; the street leading in, the dwellings to the fore and to the side. Sitting himself in the rocking chair next to his best friend, Angeal reflected that he had no idea how to approach the conversation at all. And it was rare for him to be at a loss for words...for reassurance. Because while he wanted to comfort the man next to him, he was well aware that talk, in this situation, was cheap.

“Well” the redhead drawled, setting the almost-empty bottle down. “Tell me what a shit idea this all was.” When Angeal merely looked at him and said nothing, the scarlet-haired ex-SOLDIER snorted. “C’mon, don’t pussyfoot around it ‘Geal. We both know that this was the dumbest stunt I’ve managed to pull.”

“I don’t think so” Angeal said slowly. “I think…” he hesitated. “Well, I think that I’m having a hard time understanding why you did it, other than for Saorise. Because I can tell that this is hurting you...and as your friend, I hate to see that.”

 _”I hate to see that”_ Genesis mimicked, throwing caution to the wind and snatching the vodka up to take another swig. By the time he put it down again, he looked dangerously close to falling over. “Circinae” he slurred. “If we want to bring the bitch up” he held up a hand when Angeal opened his mouth to protest. “Just shut up. My dear departed mother once told me that _‘holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping the other person gets sick.’_ ” A decidedly disjointed shrug. “So I thought, _’hell, I don’t want to forgive this motherfucker, but I don’t want it to eat me alive either.’_ ” Blue eyes fixed him with a stare that was strangely steady. “So, that’s why I did it. Nothing fucking noble about it, I just didn’t want it hanging over my head.”

“I wouldn’t call that ignoble-” the dark-haired man began but he was cut off when his conversational companion kicked the ottoman before them so hard into the bannister that it cracked.

“-I don’t give a _shit_ what you call it Angeal!” he shouted, his voice cracking. Inside, the murmur of voices fell momentarily silent before slowly starting up again. Lowering his voice to a hiss, Genesis continued. “You know, you’re my friend, or you’re supposed to be anyway. I’m always on this pedestal to you, so high that we never see eye to eye. But when I fuck up, _I fuck up_ , and you’re so _disappointed_. You’re disappointed but you hide it by trying to insist that I’m _good_ and _noble_ and that I have _every right_ to be an asshat when really you had no fucking right to put me up there in the first place. Fuck you for that, I didn’t ask for that. I’m a selfish man, with selfish needs, and just because I can turn it into something pretty for Saorise doesn’t mean that it’s pretty for me.”

“I think we should talk when you’re feeling more logical” Angeal said firmly, beginning to get up. “And sober” he added.

“Yeah, that’s right, run away like you always do. When things get tough you-”

“-I what?!” Angeal said, finally losing his patience. “Cut you down from the ceiling?! Save your life?!”

“Again” Genesis said fiercely. “I didn’t ask for that. I _wanted_ to die that night, I was _ready_ , but you had to trot along and shove your friendship in my face and force me to _live_ just to go through this over and over again. When I’m at my worst, you’re there. But when it comes to the talking, to the working through it, you’re not. You want to throw me in front of a therapist, or insist that I have  _so much to live for,_ the core of the problem doesn't matter to you. What do I have to do to get you to understand that I’m a trainwreck? Do I have to _lay down_ in the fucking tracks every time?!”

“You’re not being fair about it” Angeal snapped. “You know that’s not true, you know I’d do anything for you. That there are people in this house that would lay down their lives for you in the blink of an eye. Genesis, _your sister_ has been seeing Sephiroth in the Lifestream-”

Mentioning Sephiroth was a mistake.

It was a mistake because Genesis flew out of his chair so fast the remainder of the vodka smashed to pieces at his feet. The redhead stumbled, kept going ‘till he nearly fell over the bannister only to right himself and grab at Angeal’s lapels.

 _”Don’t you dare”_ he hissed. “Don’t you _dare_ try and rope me into that crazy bullshit. Don’t you make me _wish_ again” his voice broke on the word ‘wish’. Whatever fire had been fueling the older man’s rage seemed to burn out because Genesis didn’t do anything but shake him a little bit before letting go so he could stagger back to his chair. “Don’t mention Sephiroth to me ever again” he said dully. “Don’t. I can’t stand it.” When Angeal remained...hovering between a kind of quivering, grief-ridden indecision and total destruction, a booted foot kicked at the broken glass. “Get the fuck out of here” the redhead said hoarsly. “Go inside, with all those other happy people. We’re done. _I’m done_.”

“I’m not giving up on you” Angeal said flatly.

Genesis’ answering laugh was ugly and dull.

“Too bad” he sneered. “Can’t give up on something that doesn’t exist.”

Angeal left.

He left...but he refused to give up. And it didn’t matter what was said to him...in the end. They had too much behind them, too much history for him to dismiss their friendship because Genesis was hurting. He would _not_ give up on Genesis, because he would, in effect, be giving up on himself. Gillian gave him a worried look when he entered the living room; her eyes concerned, resigned, desperate. Aerith and Zack were gone; presumably having left when the argument began. Genesis’ sister was painfully in tune with her brother’s emotions. When he was upset, the transference between them became nearly unbearable for her. Willow was waiting by the door, and she put a hand to his cheek, forced him to look at her when he was within her reach. There was the scrape of a chair, the murmur of conversation between Vincent and Gillian, but he ignored it. Instead, he watched as his friend’s daughter got up and moved toward him...so resemblant of both men...one that had been...and one who barely was. When they were level with each other, Saoirse opened her mouth.

“Is Dad okay?”

Taking a deep breath, trying to shove his grief down, Angeal shook his head.

“No” he said gruffly. “No...he needs...he needs time. But he also needs something else… _someone_ else.”

Green eyes filled with tears.

“But he’s not coming back” she said desperately. “I can’t make him happy, I’m not enough-!”

“-That’s just the thing” Angeal interrupted, wincing apologetically. “I think you can help. And all you need to do is give me permission to do something.”

“Anything” was the whispered response. “I’d do anything.”

Meeting her gaze squarely, Angeal put a hand on her shoulder.

“I need your permission” he murmured.

“...I need you to let me look for a way to bring Sephiroth back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I want to emphasize that this chapter was written on the worst of days, following the worst of weeks. There were several things that occurred outside of AO3 that were tremendously damaging and hurtful, in subtle but ultimately irreversibly blatant and intentional ways, that I don't think can be fixed. 
> 
> I had a paragraph written out concerning Saorise's response to Vincent, but I don't think there's really any point in defending that. I'm aware that this chapter is like...full of angry, and I kind of relate more to Genesis in this situation, particularly with Angeal, than anything, which might make my view biased. 
> 
> A song that sort of hit home with this chapter was 'grave digger' by matt maeson; that was on repeat throughout the process. 
> 
> Thank you, however, for reading. 
> 
>  
> 
> **R &R**


	6. Chapter 6

_”We are not the sum of our faults, but the sum of how hard we strive, in moments of wrong, to correct what those faults have borne us, and our loved ones.”_

Sitting on Gillian’s porch step, watching as the woman in question and Angeal talked inside, Saoirse didn’t know if that was true. Glancing down at the line in the book once more-an old one...a gift, if she could remember right, from Tseng-the redhead closed the book, and then did the same with her eyes. It was getting warmer; spring was coming. When she was little, she used to get excited about the coming summer. Mostly because it meant she didn’t have to go to school, didn’t have to endure the looks from her classmates that blatantly stated that she was the reminder of something, some _one_ , dead and buried. It meant that she didn’t have to lock herself in the cloistered bathroom stalls in the library and cry because someone had scribbled something hateful on her locker again. It meant that she didn’t have to go to such lengths to hide her resemblance to her dead father by putting her hair up, wearing skirts, or trying to apply makeup. She’d once bought contacts...brown ones; the cheap kind...just so she wouldn’t have to have his eyes. The stye she managed to give herself by trying to shove them in took weeks to go away, but the pain of resemblance didn’t. 

Summers also meant more time with her remaining father.

‘More time’ was always something up in the air, because Genesis Rhapsodos was sometimes neither here nor there. Rubbing the ribbed cotton shoulder of her sweater, Saoirse ducked her head...looked blankly at the wooden slats on the porch floor. It wasn’t like he was a bad parent; saying that would have been a lie. Never once-as far as her memory served her-had her father ever made her feel like she was unloved. There were times when he made her feel like she made things complicated and painful for him, but she had never felt like he didn’t love her. In youth, the struggles of parenthood escaped her because she didn’t know what to look for. Yes, sometimes there was crying...late at night...past midnight when the black velvet of the sky swallowed everything around it. She could remember climbing the stairs to the loft to try and see what was wrong...many, many times...wanting to fix it...feeling terrified even though she didn’t know why. And, yes, sometimes there were times when she felt alone, when she felt misunderstood or like no one was listening to her. 

This would be one of those times. 

Putting her book to the side Saoirse stared down the driveway at the rough...blackened tire burns on the asphalt. They were the only reminder of the fact that her father had been there in the first place. He’d dropped her off; of course. It was the weekend, they’d spent most of the last five days together; coordinating between her school schedule and his work schedule. They ate dinner; sometimes on the couch and sometimes at the kitchen table if Genesis was feeling particularly parent-ey. She understood, on a subliminal level, that her father was never going to approach parenting in the way that her peers’ parents did. Not because he was an idiot, but because he was-by no fault of his own-different from them in ways that were irreversible and concrete. Genesis Rhapsodos was raised as an offering to a company, bred to be a killer, as he sometimes said. It was hard to believe such a thing, as a child; that her Dad could be vicious, that he could be so cold as to take lives without thinking about it...without batting an eye. She knew better now, of course, knew that those deaths weighed on him. And there were times...when he thought she wasn’t looking...that she could see that inner monstrosity. Because as nurturing and as loving as he could be, he was fiercely frigid to those who didn’t know him; aloof, distant and bitterly cynical in ways that she was not. 

_”Predator.”_

Something spat by a civilian, a classmate...it didn’t really matter. She’d heard it a thousand times before. And it was true...a little bit. Genesis’ existence was basely centered off the glory of the kill. But it wasn’t his fault, not really. At the same time, there _were_ times when she wished for some form of normalcy; for a togetherness that wasn’t so tenuous, so unstable. Saoirse didn’t want a different family, she just wanted-quite badly, really-for her family to be happy. It seemed such a simple thing...a little thing...but it wasn’t. Not for a man who had lost so much that he loved, not for a SOLDIER who had served a farce for so long. She didn’t know the circumstances behind Sephiroth’s death, and she didn’t ask because every time she brought her other father up Genesis looked like something inside of him was being twisted beyond recognition. It was a deep pain; it held horrible, frightening secrets that she didn’t think either of them were ready to face. 

The little moments. 

She lived for them. Not necessarily the happy moments, because she had plenty of those; but the singular, painite-rare snatches of time when she could really see Genesis. And they were painfully singular and agonizing fleeting, but she still had them...had them gathered close to her heart because she couldn’t think of a single other thing to do with them. There was a time he came home from work on her ninth birthday; when his keys jingled in the lock and she’d run to hug him because she just felt like she should. He’d surprised her then, surprised her by putting on some ancient, disgusting form of disco music that made her want to shriek in horror and danced her around the living room. It was such a natural thing, so smooth in its transition and when he laughed it was terribly free and full with an edge of mischief mixed with fondness and she could _see_ him. Saoirse could see the man her father had been; full of fire and wit and intelligence and fun. Because the Genesis Rhapsodos of yore was a man to be reckoned with; not a clown, as some might see such an attitude. No, much more masterful than that. A courtier and a flirt, though not to her, of course. 

And she ruined it. 

She ruined it and she full well knew she did because after five minutes she burst out crying. She cried because it was so happy that it was too much. Because she hated knowing what she was missing. And she hurt him when she did that, hurt him even if she didn’t mean to. Somehow, without saying anything at all, he knew what was wrong and he disappeared again; retreated even as he comforted her and she hated herself, hated him, hated Sephiroth for being the ghost that lingered between them. She didn’t understand the emotion at the time, didn’t understand why it bothered her so much because she was, after all, only nine. Now she knew better, but at the time she had nothing to do but wish she hadn’t smashed it all to pieces with her tears. It wouldn’t have lasted very long regardless, it never did, but there was a part of her that was so _angry_ at herself for doing that. There were other moments like that; other brief windows into the mystery of him that bewildered her as much as they uplifted her. When she made him laugh, _truly_ laugh, with his head thrown back and his eyes crinkled up she wanted to freeze him there, wanted to just press pause on him so he could feel that happiness forever. She could live like that, with him frozen in mirth because it was so much better than what he was otherwise. And he wasn’t cruel; he was fair and gentle and probably such a polar opposite to her when she thought about how he was with everyone else that she wondered why he bothered, but she’d have taken his cruelty over his inner confinement….

...She’d have taken it if it meant he could be happy, because that it what children wish for. 

Someone set a dish down on the kitchen counter with some force and Saoirse jumped before recollecting herself. Looking out at the yard again, she shook her head. She didn’t know where he went...when he was like this. Brooding, angry, withdrawn. He at least had the sense not to take her with him, she doubted she’d have liked finding out what he was up to. And he was angry, angry at her, angry at Angeal. Angry because she’d consented where he wouldn’t but she wasn’t going to say no, not to such an opportunity. And it wasn’t because she particularly _wanted_ Sephiroth back; she didn’t know him, after all. But she did know that maybe...just maybe it would make things better. And if it didn’t make things better maybe it would provide closure. She didn’t like that concept particularly; didn’t like the idea that once everything was over and done with the father she had never met would be an eternally closed door, but maybe closed doors were what they needed. All of them. 

Saoirse liked Vincent. 

She liked him because he was gloomy in a manner that was a little bit adorable. And she knew that she ought to feel angry at him for failing to prevent things, but really, what could he have done? She didn’t know the whole of it, not really, but she understood that a choice made could not be unmade so many years in the future. And Vincent was honest...if a little bit guarded. He was forthright in ways that Genesis was often convoluted. She’d never begrudged her father his obscurity, but it was relieving to talk to someone who would simply say all there was to know without leaving out the hard parts for the sake of her perceived fragility. A part of her acknowledged that Vincent didn’t love her the way Genesis did. There wasn’t anything paternal about it, and Genesis was fiercely, sometimes tyrannically paternal. He didn’t coddle her because he thought she was weak, but because he didn’t want her to worry. That wasn’t a cruelty, it was a form of deep, endearing love and she wouldn’t dismiss it just because she was bitter about it. She doubted that she could ever see the gunslinger as a grandfather, but she did see him as a friend. He didn’t ask her to call him anything other than his given name in any case, and she suspected they were both quite relieved about it. 

“He’ll come around.” 

Tilting her head, Saoirse straightened somewhat as Willow spoke, as she moved from the door to the porch to sit with her. It was the same place that Genesis had smashed the bottle of vodka days before...the same place where he’d shouted-desperately and hysterically-at the top of his lungs while his Angeal stood speechless and helpless. Willow was simple in ways that the rest of them weren’t. More than likely because she hadn’t lived the horrors that they had lived. Saoirse didn’t envy her, but she did envy her her future, her happiness. She was hopelessly pretty, almost annoyingly kind and devastatingly intelligent without all the baggage. As if reading her thoughts, the woman in question laughed softly and shook her head. 

“Oh Saoirse” she sighed, leaning forward. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not so simple, and I know you’re not a little girl. But your father loves you.” Blonde curls caught the light of the midday sun as she sat back in her chair. “That, at least, is something you know for sure.” 

Swallowing, the younger woman put her book to the side and worried her lip before replying. 

“I know” she replied. “But...I hurt him.” 

“You don’t” was the gentle, emphatic response. Willow waited for her to look at her before continuing. When she did, the solemnity in her expression was earnest. “You _don’t_ , and you didn’t. Love is…” a pause, and the older woman’s face screwed up exasperatedly. “Complicated, messy. It’s not easy, it’s not ever easy and Genesis...well, he never had closure, and I don’t think he’s sure if he wants it.” 

“But what if they find him?” Saoirse muttered, looking at her nails. “What if they bring him back?”

There was a long silence this time, and when Willow spoke again, it was halting. 

“I…” another pause, another stretch of wordless timespace quickly followed by a sigh. “This is beyond my ken” was quiet admittance. “I don’t know anything about it at all, so I couldn’t tell you what might or might not be. I don’t know if it would be better, I can’t promise you anything in that regard, and so I won’t.” Another exhalation. “Saoirse, the most important thing for you to remember in all of this is that you’re loved, by a lot of people, and that you’re not alone.” This was followed by a grimace. “I know it’s substandard, commonplace statement. But it’s the truth. It doesn’t fix this-” a gesture, out at the tire marks in the yard. “-Doesn’t fix the fact that he’s upset, not in the least.”

It didn’t fix it. 

Bowing her head once more, Saoirse acknowledged that nothing that anyone, save for Genesis, could say would fix it. She’d exhausted the topic herself in her mind; turned it over and over again. Talking about it wouldn’t make the issue go away, she could only wait it out and hope for the best. She hadn’t bothered asking Angeal or Aerith what their plans were regarding Sephiroth. Aerith had gone away after the argument between the two former SOLDIERs and she hadn’t seen her since. Maybe she was looking, maybe she was trying to gather herself together again, it didn’t particularly matter. She’d told Genesis what she acquiesced to on the ride home and he hadn’t said a word. He didn’t yell at her, but he drove faster and things were tense between them the subsequent week. Really, she’d have preferred him exploding...but he never did...not at her...and he never had. Sometimes she didn’t know what made her so special that she was spared so much of what the redhead did to others. And she did know, she was his daughter, of course. But that didn’t make her infallible. 

“Do you have siblings?” Saoirse asked quietly. 

Willow looked surprised by the question, and she understood. It was a drastic change in topic, after all, but she couldn’t think on the whole of it anymore without driving herself crazy. 

“I don’t” was the gentle response. Willow smiled. “Just me, I’m afraid, a bit like you. I don’t think my parents wanted more children, but I never thought to ask them.” 

Saoirse frowned. 

“They live...far away?” 

Another smile, and this time it was tinged with sadness.

“My parents lived in a sector close to HQ” she said quietly. “Something happened that obliterated that sector, wiped it off the map really. They died.” 

“She’s old enough to know.” 

Both women jumped when Angeal spoke. Leaning against the door to the living room, the former FIRST raised an eyebrow. He was dressed for patrol, and Soairse guessed that it wouldn’t be long before he headed out, his cruiser was parked in the yard. In the kitchen, Gillian could be heard getting supplies from the cabinets for a late lunch. Swallowing, the redhead focused her attention on the conversation better. 

“Old enough to know what?” she asked quietly. 

“Maybe this is something Genesis ought to tell her” Willow interjected quietly. When Saoirse shot her resentful look, her expression became apologetic. “I’m not saying that because I don’t think you’re ready to hear it...but because this...it’s something private...something very _painful_ for your father.” The word _’painful’_ was shot in Angeal’s direction. “I know you fought” Willow continued. “But Angeal, please. I’m not angry about it, I just don’t want to-”

“-Genesis got sick” Angeal interrupted; bluntly, forcefully. “Extremely sick, he was dying and we couldn’t find a cure. Sephiroth...he cared for him, for weeks, months...watched him waste away before his eyes and loved him anyway. He came to me, begged me to look for a solution with him. We found one, but not before Genesis was clinically dead.” 

“But he’s here now” Saoirse said numbly. 

“He is” the dark-haired man agreed. “But Sephiroth...when Genesis stopped breathing, his inhibitions were unfettered. He flew himself into a reactor. Presumably, or so I think, to follow Genesis. It exploded and took out that sector with it. Sephiroth survived, Willow’s parents didn’t.” 

The guilt was tremendous.

Even as she felt it, Saoirse acknowledged that it didn’t feel rational, didn’t even feel like _she_ should be feeling it. There were other times when her emotions felt similarly different, displaced even. It was uncomfortable; not intolerable...but strange. This time, however, it was more of a residual feeling, like whatever had been there was simply transmitting something that echoed. There was a sense of void...of emptiness that was nearly intolerable. 

“I’m sorry” she said reflexively, her voice trembling.

“It wasn’t your fault” Willow gasped, looking horrified by her tears. She sent a glare Angeal’s way and he at least had the sense to look chastised. “It wasn’t! And it wasn’t Sephiroth’s fault either really. Grief makes people blind, keeps them from seeing sense. He didn’t lay waste to the sector himself, he was looking for a way out of his pain.”

“Most people wouldn’t be so forgiving” Saoirse whispered. 

“I’m a therapist” was the gentle reply. “It’s my job to understand the underlying motivations behind the things people do. And I _was_ angry...for a little while. Mostly because the propaganda Shinra fed the public was based on lies, and I took those lies for verity and didn’t bother to look further.” Willow took a deep breath. “It’s easy” she said bitterly. “To hate someone without knowing how they actually feel. Sephiroth was easy to hate, but through no fault of his own.” A smile, and this one was-if possible-sadder than the first. “So really, I owe you an apology, for judging your father for being in such terrible pain. My parents...I loved them, they were so good to me, so kind and understanding and loving. But Genesis was the only love Sephiroth ever knew. He wasn’t emotionally prepared for losing that kind of love.” Willow closed her eyes. “And so, you see, Saoirse. If that was what Genesis’ temporary death did to Sephiroth, you must understand a little bit, of what Genesis is going through now.” 

“But you recovered” Saoirse pointed out. “You’re not...broken, like he is.” 

Angeal made a low sound in the back of his throat; something she had never heard from him before. It was pained...ruined really, that sound.

“Genesis and Sephiroth didn’t have the upbringing I did” Willow murmured. “Or the security, or the reassurances.”

“He came-” Angeal broke off and cleared his throat. “Genesis, I mean” he continued gruffly. “Came over, to my house in Banora, every day.” Blue eyes were hidden behind onyx lashes. “And every day, he had a new bruise. Shikro beat the hell out of him until he was big enough to fight back and figured out that he could.” Large hands scrubbed reflexively over muscular arms. “And Sephiroth was...well, he was brutalized as a child. There’s no other word for it.”

“Neither of them were taught coping skills when it came to bereavement” Willow continued when it was clear that Angeal couldn’t anymore. “Neither of them knew nurture, only nature.” Blonde curls bounced as she shook her head. “It’s a miracle really” was the tight continuation. “That they were able to love each other at all. But when they did, and when Genesis lost that love, he lost something...very large.” 

She hadn’t known. 

Blinking furiously, trying to keep the tears that were trying to well up in her eyes at bay, Saoirse clenched her fingers to keep them from trembling. She had always wondered why they didn’t see Shikro. Genesis talked about him sparingly, distantly. Like he was a high school acquaintance that he vaguely knew but had mostly forgotten about. She’d tried asking, once or twice, but he brushed the topic to the side or ignored her completely. Now, of course, it made more sense. It also made her want to strangle her grandfather which was a strange feeling and was a bit displaced like her guilt had been. It was hard to imagine her father in a position where he was incapable of defending himself; where he was helpless against the actions of others. A child, however, could not defend themselves from the person who was supposed to love, cherish, and protect them. 

“He could have told me!” she exclaimed, hating when her voice broke. 

“No” Angeal said flatly. “He couldn’t have. Genesis loves you, Saoirse. And he didn’t, and doesn’t want you to feel sorry for him.” Another pause. “He’s never struck you” he added, and it was a statement, not a question. “Never raised his voice at you; now you know why.” 

It was too much. 

It was all a little too much to bear, even in front of two people who knew her well and who had treated her kindly. When Saoirse stood, it seemed like Willow might try and reach for her, but Angeal stepped forward to put a hand on her shoulder. His girlfriend turned and leveled him with such a fierce stare it was a miracle his head didn’t catch fire. Still, she settled. Not in an obedient way, but in a manner that suggested she understood why he had stopped her. As Saoirse stood in a muddled haze of grief and panic, Willow rose as well before stepping back somewhat; towards the door to the living room.

 

“We’ll give you some space” she said quietly. “Angeal has to go on shift, but I’ll be here and so will Gillian if you need to talk.” 

Furiously, Saoirse nodded, gulping back the emotion that threatened to consume her. Angeal remained but a few moments longer, his eyes searching her face for something...she didn’t know what. Whatever he was looking for, he either found it or he didn’t, because he disappeared all the same. The driveway seemed darker now, seemed tainted. With grief or with realization, she didn’t know. Only that there was nothing she could do now except hope that whatever Aerith did, it would bring them answers. She determined not to tell Genesis, not now anyway, because she truly didn’t think it would help anything. He’d be embarrassed, or worse, furious with Angeal for telling her anything at all. And what could she say to him, really? _Apologise_ for the way he’d been treated as a child? That wouldn’t change anything, it wouldn’t reverse the damage that had been done. It would only add to the bleak truth that as much as she wished things were different, they weren’t. She was one person, and sometimes it felt like she was fighting a war against an invisible force that was trying to take everything she loved away from her even as she wildly clutched it to her chest...trying to keep it safe but failing. Grasping at the porch railing, she hung her head as the last vestiges of her composure broke free. 

Saoirse cried...but she didn’t cry for herself. 

She cried for her father. 

And then she cried for the father who she’d never met...and quite possibly never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** So we get a very depressing chapter at the end of everything lol I am sorry about all these downer chapters, seriously. The next one we're going to be moving forward a bit with the plot (I hope) instead of raining tragic backstory. But we do get to see Saoirse and Willow a bit, in terms of their relationship, how they interact, etc. Thanks for reading!
> 
> **R &R**


	7. Chapter 7

Betrayed. 

Genesis felt betrayed. It was an irrational feeling, granted; ridiculous even. It wasn’t like Saoirse wasn’t her own person, like she didn’t have the right to have her own emotions, make her own choices, or stand up for what she believed in. He’d raised her to be that way; to be strong, to trust her gut, to never feel cowed; even in the face of an angry redhead twenty something years her senior. He never, ever, wanted her to feel like she didn’t have a voice, and he certainly didn’t want her to feel like her decisions weren’t hers to make. He knew what that felt like...that emotional and physical incarceration. The former Commander was fully aware of what being a slave to something bigger than you felt like and he’d have rather twisted himself into knots than give his daughter the impression that she was beholden to him in some way, shape, or form. He was her parent, yes; but he wasn’t her judgemental jailer, nor did he want to be. 

He still felt betrayed. 

His rational psyche understood that this was to be expected. What else was he supposed to feel when his daughter told him that she’d given his best friend the ‘go ahead’ to find his most certainly dead as a doornail boyfriend? And, sure, Aerith had approached him with it and he had lost his everloving shit, but what would anyone in his position do? _’Oh, hey, Genesis, we would like to revisit your tortured past on a half-ass whim that we might be able to de-zombify your lover. Isn’t that just great?’_ Snorting, the redhead lowered his chin somewhat and stared into the depths of his coffee mug. It wasn’t helping, the coffee. He had a hangover the size of an asteroid-rare for him, usually a good indicator he’d overindulged-and his body was so sore he was actually feeling his age. 

It didn’t help. 

He’d dropped Saoirse off at Gillian’s because she had no place going where he was going; no place knowing how he privately and inhumanely dealt with his pain. Nobody needed to see that; it was intensely self-destructive, intensely damaging, and desperately personal. He had no secret, voyeuristic urge to share that agony with anyone save for the nameless, vaguely blurred person whose face he’d shoved into the mattress so he didn’t have to talk to them through it. His youngish philosophies regarding the value of a good, hard, wordless fuck were null and void. They didn’t _fill_ the chasm; not really. Sometimes they made it seem wider; darker and more destructive. Certainly, they didn’t assuage anything...did nothing but feed that emptiness. 

“Dad.” 

Different. 

Looking at his daughter...his only daughter...his only child, Genesis reflected that Saoirse’s bearing was different. She was careful around him now, and normally that would have made him wither up inside and feel monstrous, but it wasn’t a fearful sort of care. Instead, it was a _delicate_ kind of care, like she was trying not to break him apart. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t notice such things, that he didn’t care, didn’t want to understand. It hurt him...a little bit, that Saoirse would ever think that she couldn’t talk to him, or that he was too fragile for her to confide in. More than that, it made him hate himself, made him bitterly despise his mercuirty because no child deserved such tenuousness…such an impression of paternal-or, even parental-instability. Clearing his throat, the redhead pushed his mug away and looked at Saoirse more fully; noted the shadows underneath those Sephiroth-green eyes and the downturn of her mouth. 

“Sit down” he muttered before his guilt could choke all verbosity right out of him. When she hesitated still, he took her hand. “Please. I want to talk to you.” 

They’d decorated the kitchen together. 

Many, many years ago, that is. Genesis had taken Saoirse to a home appliance store and let her pick out the colors. He was both surprised and grudgingly fond when she’d immediately went for white and black. It was so ‘Generalish’, so Seph-ish that he nearly blubbered in the middle of the flooring department. Of course, she went in the complete opposite direction with the utensils-a bright, fire hydrant red, to be exact-and the dinnerware so he supposed maybe she’d gotten a bit of him as well but the similarities were impossible to miss. The kitchen itself was set along a dividing wall between the dining room and the living room; unenclosed and framed by a half-ovular bar table and respective stools. It was here that he sat; with a set of solid red, blue, and yellow vases to his left and some paper sunflowers that Saoirse had made in third grade to his right. Sliding onto one of the aforementioned barstools, the redhead in question took her hand back and wrung it fretfully with the other. 

It was hard to start a conversation like this.

Hard, because while Genesis recognized that his daughter was older, he still had that automatic, parental impulse to protect her from the pain of verity. He wanted to see her grow up happy, but he also wanted to see her free from worry...from despair and from confusion. It was an unrealistic outlook because no matter how much he wished otherwise, the world was not a kind place. People were not kind and they wouldn’t change for the sake of one singular little-even if passionate-girl, no matter how much he loved her to pieces. He was also, contrary to popular belief, terrible with women. Conversations, really...with the opposite sex usually ended up in situations of terrible offense that while unintentional, were unavoidable. And he knew it was different, knew that talking to his daughter was different than talking to someone he barely knew but the apprehension and anxiety were still there. 

“I’m so-”

“Don’t” Genesis cut in, more sharply than he intended. When Saoirse looked miserable he swiveled on his stool and leaned forward, took both her hands this time and drew them close. “Don’t” he repeated, gently this time. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I told Angeal-”

“-You told ‘Geal to look for your Dad” he said gently, cupping her cheek. “How monstrous would I be, Saoirse, to tell you that you were wrong to do that?” A tight, painful feeling rose in his chest but he pushed it down. “I love you” he said carefully, awkwardly. “And I am not going to be mad at you for trying to fix this mess.” 

Green eyes filled with tears. 

“But you were” was the whispered response. “You were mad at me.” 

Resolutely, he shook his head. 

“No” he said dryly, pulling a hand back. “I was mad at myself. Mad that it was even necessary that you felt you ought to put yourself in that position.” He sighed. “Because you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t have to.” 

She didn’t believe him. 

Pursing his lips and observing his daughter’s visage, Genesis acknowledged that she had every right not to. After all, he had felt some subliminal level of betrayal. Irrational, perhaps, but present all the same. And it was easy to put it on himself, easy to place the blame on his own actions and not acknowledge that he felt otherwise, but it was also dishonest. Saoirse was the only family, by blood, that he had. He couldn’t disregard that just because he wanted to make things better, it wouldn’t help them find a middle ground, wouldn’t help them reciprocate with one another. There was more bothering her than her actions regarding Angeal, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out, but he couldn’t press her for her honesty if he didn’t give her his own. 

“Sometimes” he said slowly. “When people do things you don’t want them to do it feels like they’ve abandoned you.” When Saorise flinched he squeezed her hand. “I felt that way” he admitted. “But it’s not true, not in the least. I’d lashed out at Angeal, said awful things to him” he waved a hand. “You heard, and I’m sorry you heard; and then you did that, told me you did that-which, honesty, I don’t think I would have managed it with my father-” Something flashed in her eyes at the mention of Shikro. It gave him pause, because it was a _vicious_ , hateful look. He nearly pursued it there and then, because he’d never seen her have such a look before. Genesis was almost alarmed because her eyes whispered that they’d have liked to do harm, and it was such a strong reaction, so unlike her. Instead, he tucked that information away for later and continued. “-And I appreciate it, I didn’t at the time, but I always have in the long run. I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep everything inside just because I’m some sort of emotional pansy.” 

“I don’t think that” Saoirse said, her gaze sliding to the island counter. 

Genesis smirked. 

“Well, thanks and all that, but we both know that I’m not exactly the healthiest person to walk the face of the earth. And just because I’m a shitshow doesn’t meant that you need to pander to my shitshow. Gaia knows I’ve had enough people doing that for me.” He bent his head and lifted a hand to tap his daughter’s chin until she was looking at him again. “No matter what. And you are enough, you are more than enough.” Her lip trembled and he made a soft _’tsk’_ ’ing sound. “I don’t tell you that, I don’t. And I’m such a miserable S.O.B., I think I give you the impression that you don’t make me happy, but you are a gift, you will always be a gift. I wanted you before you were born, and just because things didn’t turn out the way I thought they would doesn’t change the fact that I still want you here, as my little girl. Because you are my little girl, and I wouldn’t trade you for anything…” he breathed out shakily. “I wouldn’t even trade you for Sephiroth; and he certainly wouldn’t thank me for it. Understand” he said quietly. “That I _need_ your honesty, and I value it, as I value you. And I do, Saoirse, I do value you.”

She hugged him.

Really, she fairly threw herself at him; and that broke his heart a little bit because it told him how much she had needed to hear him say such things to her. Saoirse practically fell off her chair to hug him and it was only due to his still fairly decent balance that they kept upright at all. She sniffled into his shoulder and he pretended not to notice because he knew it would only embarrass her. With her hands gripping the back of his shirt like he was going to disappear he couldn’t help but inwardly self-flagellate because he _was_ rather fucking smarmy about so many things and sometimes he wondered if he’d ever manage to get it right. It was moments like this that grounded him, and he was always so mentally absent that he overlooked the value of them...overlooked her and then farced it up as not wanting to hurt her when really it hurt _him_ to open up so much because then he would see...see how starving she was to know that she mattered. 

“You’re not a shitshow” was the watery mumble into his lapels, and he chuckled, a little sadly. 

“Language” he admonished, but there was no weight behind it. She made a sound that he supposed was meant to have been teenagerish grumbling but really just came out as sounding full of snot. Lifting a hand to card through hair as scarlet as his own he closed his eyes. “ _I’m_ the sorry one” he muttered. “How do you put up with me?” 

She didn’t answer for a while and he let the moment spin out because he didn’t want to curtail it by being a pushy asshole. 

“I love you a lot” she grumbled. “And you’re not that bad I guess.” 

Again, he laughed, but this time it was genuine.

“You don’t have to flatter me” he chortled. “We both know that the concept of me being good is a little bullshit.” 

She drew back again and he let her. He was never one for prolonging any sort of hugging due to the fact that he clearly remembered being a teenager and hating hugs from older people. Green eyes surveyed him seriously and he determined not to draw comparisons as they made a study of his visage that was rather too stringent for someone her age. 

“I think” she said slowly before apparently deciding to make her a comment a question and not a statement. “Can we go out to eat lunch?” 

Genesis was about to open his mouth to say that _‘of course’_ they could go out and eat lunch. Because it had been a horrendously long time since they’d done anything dad-daughterly of the sort and the idea of it was attractive; mostly due to the fact he’d been dying for a sandwich from a deli about two blocks down. Saoirse was particularly fond of their ice cream. He wanted to forget the stain of the night before; the stain of so many nights...at least for now. There was the desperate, urgent sensation of owing her that; though he knew that she wouldn’t like to hear it. 

And of course his phone went off. 

Specifically it went off and he hastily reached into his pocket to turn off the ringer only to have it buzz angrily on the kitchen counter where he left it. Whoever it was called him five times and it was during that time that Saoirse eyed him with a kind of fond amusement bordering on exasperation. 

“I’m not dying of starvation” she pointed out dryly and in a manner of address that was so much like him he had to resist the urge to slap himself. “If you answer that call I won’t drop over and wither away.” 

“They’re disturbing our bonding moment” Genesis said crankily over the now rather NSFW buzzing of his cellular device. 

Scarlet brows-not his-drew together in an expression of amusement even has Saoirse giggled. 

“Dad, it’s Angeal. If you don’t pick up the phone he’s just going to come over and break the door down.” 

“It’s rude” the older man said defeatedly even as he reached for the offensive electronic. “To look at other people’s phones.” His daughter wrinkled her nose at him and he pointed a mock-stern finger in her direction even as he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, ‘Geal, hello. What the hell do you want?” 

The cheerfulness in his tone must have taken his childhood friend aback, because for a moment he couldn’t hear anything on the other end of the line but heavy breathing. Really, his former fellow Commander sounded like he had either gained an insurmountable amount of weight and climbed a flight of stairs or perhaps run a double marathon. There was-abruptly-a sensation of terrible anticipation, because while Genesis could occasionally be dense, he wasn’t entirely ignorant of their last topic of conversation. With a pang of guilt-that he angrily shoved elsewhere-the redhead acknowledged that he did owe Angeal an apology. Not necessarily for feeling the way he did, but for the things he’d said; because they weren’t true and both of them knew it. There were, of course, too many exorbitantly dramatic fights behind them to really facilitate any sort of residual grudge. Angeal knew him better than to take his words to heart, and Genesis knew better than to assume that he would. 

**_”Genesis, where are you?”_ **

Urgent, his tone was urgent.

Leaning back atop the barstool and resting an elbow on the counter, the former FIRST raised an eyebrow. 

“I am, at the moment, home. With Saoirse. But we were about to go out for lunch you see, and-”

**_”You need to come to HQ.”_ **

Squashing the imminent dread that rose in his psyche and washed like the bitter tang of copper over his tongue, Genesis looked at his nails.

“Do we still call it HQ?” he asked breezily. “I’d forgotten, and y’know how I feel about you bossing me aroun-”

**_”-You need to come to HQ now, Genesis. It’s-”_ **

“-If you tell me it’s about-” the redhead struggled with his words through gritted teeth. “-About _Seph_ , Angeal, I swear to Gaia I’ll-”

 ** _”-It’s not about Sephiroth!”_** was the barked response. **_”It’s about Hojo, and the Science Division, and it’s huge and a mess and you need to get down here now!”_**

He was abruptly hung up on. 

Specifically, Genesis was so abruptly hung up on that his childhood friend managed to cut himself off before the redhead even had a chance to reply. Staring at the device in his hand and wondering if the entire world was just prone to having _’really fucking bad ideas’_ , he slowly raised his head to look at Saoirse, whose expression was apprehensive but eager. Some part of him despaired at that, because obviously his rampant sense of adventure was hereditarily contagious and he didn’t like it one little bit. She would-he knew, quite instantly-want answers, explanations. His daughter hadn’t been able to hear what Angeal was saying over the phone, but the urgency in his tone would have been apparent. She knew about his past as a SOLDIER, knew there were some loose ends in his chronological livelihood that he had yet to fill. And he didn’t _want_ her involved, but he also knew that by not telling her anything he would only further encourage her insatiable quest for answers...and that wouldn’t do. Clearing his throat, the former Commander opened his mouth. 

“I have to go down to HQ” he said hoarsely. “Something’s going on, I don’t know what” he added when he saw her opening her mouth to ask questions. “But I’ll tell you when I get back, alright?” 

She wanted to come with him.

He could see it in her eyes; and with his own he _begged_ her not to press him, because he didn’t want to have to drive a wedge between them by refusing her. Genesis didn’t know what he was facing. As far as he knew it might be a technological or Administrational issue that Angeal just happened to go a little bit batshit over. His gut told him otherwise, however. It was, so he surmised, too much to wish that Mort from Accounting had screwed up the books so much that Angeal went ‘round the bend. Besides, HQ wasn’t in Angeal’s jurisdiction; not when it came to law enforcement. Really, he had no idea what the man was doing there at all; which did not bode well for his hopes and dreams of an easy solution. 

“Okay.” 

It was a reluctant acquiescence; but also a necessary one. They both knew it, though the fact of it went unspoken between them. Genesis was-quite painfully-conscious of the times he had left her behind with such an expression before. He had hoped, quite desperately, that they would have more time to speak with each other; this wasn’t the way he had wanted things to go. And it was never easy with them, never simple, never quite sweet enough...never shared enough and never honest enough. Looking at his daughter, with her honest eyes and her worried visage...his heart ached. Reaching to grasp her shoulder; the redhead diverted his attention at the last minute and instead leaned over to kiss her forehead. She made a typically teenagerish face and he chuckled before repeating the gesture.

“You’re a good kid” he muttered against her hair. “More than I deserve.” 

Saoirse laughed, and it was a brittle but forgiving thing, even as she hugged him. 

“Dad” she said with all the angst in the world; all the angst he had given her. 

“....You’re good too.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** : Extreme violence.

Deepground...they called it.

Pivoting to avoid a sharp, unhesitant uppercut, Angeal reflected grimly that he was really the only one fully qualified to take on such an opponent at the current time. They were outnumbered, four to one, but they were holding...and they were only holding because the men stationed in HQ at the time were _his_ men...ready to drop everything and anything in order to follow _his_ orders. The fact that they’d still do so after so much time didn’t make the former Commander feel better, though it did increase their likelihood of success. That didn’t mean the odds were positive. Really, they were horrible and there was no other way to look at it. He’d not anticipated his opponent; he was _not prepared_ for this, and he didn’t have the Buster Sword, just a stupid standard-issue handgun and that wasn’t going to do him any good. A cop, a veteran, and an army of brainwashed SOLDIERs;

...It sounded like the beginning of an off-color tavern joke.

Only it wasn’t a joke, not at all. And the only reason that it wasn’t a joke was because some sorry, overzealous idiot in Intelligence got a hair up his arse to prove that he wasn’t green and hacked into Shinra’s old logging files on a bet. The door to the massive holding was disengaged from its lock and a luminescent, blue purgatory swept from the depths of that which they had previously thought uninhabited. It was a miracle he’d been there in the first place, because if he hadn’t been, HQ would have fallen like a stack of cards. There was the slick, wet sound of sundered flesh; Angeal kicked out viciously and shattered some nameless person’s nose. They dropped like a rock, but it didn’t matter...there were more...there were always more.

They were on the ground floor.

Somewhat close to the lobby, really, and the former First supposed it was a little bit ironic that Death had been slavering a few feet from Debbie Hawthorn and her terrible glasses but he didn’t really have time to think on it. It was a sea...a tide...and they did not back down...they did not surrender when offered recompense. He knew, without a doubt, that if they were allowed into the city, the population would be decimated. So he’d shouldered his sense of honor and plodded forward as best he could...slipped and slid on carmine-soaked tiles as the pile of bodies-both friend and foe-grew ever higher. Someone managed to get him a reasonably sized sword from what remained of the armory...if you could even call it an armory when it housed armor. Outfitting was non-existent, so the semi-automatics and katanas they used to store were, veritably, in the wind.

Hojo.

It was all Hojo. It _stank_ of Hojo before he even had time to bark angry phrases at the technician who’d started the problem in the first place. And oh he had barked, because Deepground had the potential to _wipe the map_. It was dangerous to a point that it was almost comical, and the humor in it came from the sheer insanity of the genius behind it. What better way, after all, to take over the world than to have your very own personalized army? Angeal felt-quite abruptly-horrified by the implications of what could have happened should Hojo have been able to cover his tracks and remain in the company. Dying in their sleep-quick as you please-was a real possibility. It would have been so easy to take them out...child’s play, if he wanted to be macabre about it.

Sheer will.

They were holding the front through sheer will and spacial logistics because you could only fit so many angry blue people through the exit point at a single moment. It didn’t mean that they weren’t horribly compromised, and it _certainly_ didn’t mean that they could let them go...but it was something. It was an advantage, and Angeal had long ago been taught to mete out his advantages in combat. Rolling a sore shoulder, the ex-Commander leapt upwards to avoid gunfire; managed to get his feet steady on top of the reception desk before sweeping the sword to the left; feeling an immense sense of satisfaction when the mutated Soldier creeping up on him-all snarls and slavering jaws-let out a yip of pain, fell to the floor, and did not move. Blue eyes surveyed the carnaged with a practiced ease.

Formation was good.

 _Good_ but not _great_ ; acceptable, really. His old platoon was stationed in a fanned out position just before the entrance, and they’d lost a few already. The few policemen assigned to HQ had taken up long-range assault positions from the East and West hallways but they’d lost so many it was hard to say how long they’d last. Genesis had mentioned he was on his way perhaps half an hour ago, but it would take him a long time to reach HQ by standard traffic. No more were the swift, convenient helicopters taking elite members of the military to and fro at their whim. Most of the birds had been dismantled squarely due to the fact that they were atrociously unfriendly to the environment. If his friend was lucky, he’d be able to get a lift from someone.

_”On your six!”_

Not his six, apparently, even though Angeal about-faced to check. He was-abruptly-quite glad that SOLDIER had been dismantled before this happened, because the uniforms of the lower-class opponents were clearly barely-altered mimicries of your standard-issue SOLDIER garb. In the dark-or in the thick of combat, combat like this-he’d hardly have been able to tell the difference. It was a little alarming...to consider the fact that some of the individuals attacking them had to have been former SOLDIERs. He didn’t recognize them-though it was hard to, considering their apparel-but it didn’t make it an easier pill to swallow. Ramming the hilt of his sword into an unsuspecting temple, he readjusted his grip before refocusing on the melee.

Grimly, he acknowledged that eventually they’d have to retreat.

A woman came for him this time; one with red hair...a sneering, vicious face and...a bow and arrow as a main weapon. Angeal really could have snorted, he really could have. They danced around each other for a while and she threw some purring, sultry insults at him that he supposed were meant to make his manhood shrivel but only made him impatient. She had other weapons of course...and her name was Rosso the Crimson but he really couldn’t give a damn less what her name was, there was an issue of greater priority-the priority being societal peace-and he didn’t have the _time-_ -

“-Fuck, do you ever shut up?”

Angeal barely had time to register that it was Genesis speaking before the crimson tip of Rapier appeared between Rosso’s shoulder blades. Blood spattered between them...transitioned from spray to river and he wanted to ask his childhood friend how he’d kept ahold of Rapier in the mess of it all but the scarlet-haired ex-First was too busy gloating over his kill. And he was _gloating_. Really, he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in leaning over an arched, barely-living neck so he could twist a delicate chin his way...so he could look his victim in the eyes.

“Honey” he drawled. “I’d take you to dinner, you’re pretty, but you’re tacky pretty and you’ve got a mouth on you.” As if to prove a point, Rapier delved deeper and Rosso’s body went limp before Genesis let it collapse to the floor in a heap. Kicking it purely-so Angeal assumed-for the sake of doing so, the older man smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Talk’s cheap, darling” he crooned before lifting his head to nod at Angeal. “Should’ve learned that a long time ago.”

“Pot, kettle” the former Commander couldn’t help but interject dryly. Genesis snorted.

“Yeah, but at least I make it look good.” The humor dissipated between them as they looked out over the writhing sea of combat. “ _This_ doesn’t look good” was the flat continuation. “What are we looking at?”

“They keep coming” Angeal muttered, nudging the corpse between them out of the way with the toe of his boot.

“Do we know who they are?” was the sharp response as Rapier arced through the air.

Just like old times.

It was...but it wasn’t. It was bitter in ways that Angeal didn’t think he could elucidate properly. The fact that they could fall back into field lingo...into their old personas so easily was disheartening. It made him wonder if therapy had done him any good at all. In consideration of outlook, the former Commander knew that it was self-defeating. Peace was a relative thing...something short-lived. That didn’t, of course, change the fact that he _wanted_ peace; that he had always wanted peace even if he hadn’t really known that he was the problem that was keeping peace from happening in the first place. He was desperately aware of the consequences of violence...of mindless violence. And while they weren’t the ones who had started this particular incident, there was no denying that they would be the ones to end it. Because Deepground had a lot to fight for...but they hadn’t been fighting _them_. And _them_ were the remnants of something monstrous...of the deep and dark...of hidden secrets and black fallacies. They were dirty fighters...the lot of them, but they were not men born from the dregs of personified apocalypse...and they would fall before them because that is what had to be done.

No matter the cost.

“Something of Hojo’s” Angeal replied, squaring himself up beside his friend. “Don’t like to negotiate.”

Genesis smiled.

“ _Everyone_ negotiates” was the sardonic remark. “They’re negotiating now...with their blades...with their firearms. They’re telling us what they want.” A fiery brow winged upwards. “So let’s _give_ it to them.”

“I don’t like this!” Angeal shouted at a retreating back, flinched slightly when Rapier swung in a lethal circle and took out a massive circumference of the opposing force. Hopping down from his perch, the dark-haired man followed in behind...marked the older man’s rear and kept the throng from falling in behind him. “It’s...a regression.”

“You don’t have to like it” was the snapped response. “But it’s what’s happening, so let’s focus, and not get too fucking deep into the morality of it, alright?”

He knew it was a crutch.

Morality...that is. But he also knew that Genesis’ viciousness, his pride...was just as much of a tripwire. They could dance around it day in and day out, but they both knew that this was what the redhead wanted; an excuse. An excuse to let his anger and rage out on something that would fight back for all that it was worth. There was a roar...one that was almost inhumane as a giant of a man was felled beneath the scarlet ruthlessness of his childhood friend’s weapon. Carnage. That’s all it was. In earlier days, he’d have likened it to Sephiroth, but it was anything but. This was grief personified, and it told him that they had _so much further_ to go before they found any sort of healing. And it was a setback...a large setback. They weren’t any closer to finding Sephiroth but they were still killing people. The despair that set in with this acknowledgement was hard to swallow...all of it was hard to swallow.

He couldn’t bank on honor anymore.

There was an explosion...a cacophony of pained howls and the Firaga set loose upon the enemy masses tore through them like the spirit of ire personified. His men had fallen back...aware that they had no ability to keep up with them...that Genesis’ ability to hold them was far greater than anything they could put forth. Heat seared Angeal’s cheeks...threatened to singe his eyelashes before he threw up an old, dusty Shield he kept on his person for nostalgia’s sake. Something tried to grasp him from behind and he threw his blade to his fore thoughtlessly...didn’t even glance backward to see what he’d hit...there was no point. The foyer of HQ was littered with glass...with corpses and half-dead, faceless individuals he would never know. It was nostalgic in a way that was painful. Only this time, _this time_ , he couldn’t acknowledge the greater good. And it didn’t matter that they wouldn’t surrender...it was just death...death, and more death.

Genesis obviously had no qualms with ignoring morality.

As the flames from the first Firaga died out like twisting...luminescent phantoms...another took its place...roared to life and blazed abroad...decimated the ranks of those who would oppose them. All the while, Angeal’s childhood friend’s visage was that of a cold, professional focus. He imagined that his was much the same...even if it felt like he was dying a slow death via recollection. You couldn’t sugarcoat mortality...he’d had to learn that the hard way. Whatever Hojo had been planning, when left bereft, these individuals had built a world for themselves beneath the city. They were amassed, hostile, and relentless but they were clearly protecting one another. He understood that on a subliminal level that made him nauseous...because this was _always_ how things ended ...how they began. There was no rectifying it now, of course, the blow had been dealt, and now they had to mete it out.

A cardinal cataclysm.

If Genesis was aware of the comparison, he’d likely have preened, but Angeal kept it entirely to himself because it was not a compliment. Despite more than a decade off the field, the redhead was still a killing machine. It was hard to believe-even as he did the same-that the individual before him was over forty years old. It made him sick, because it meant that Shinra could have used them _as long as they damn well wanted to_. His arms were sore, but it wasn’t a soreness due to any sort of agedness, just lack of practice. Their lethal exchange with the rival advance was something choreographed, as easy as breathing. They were skilled, but they dropped like flies because they’d dealt with things like this in Wutai. Neither of them were immortal, but they weren’t driving hard through a narrow entrypoint; they had the advantage of a large floor space and an overwhelming amount of firepower from Genesis. Shinra hadn’t lauded the older man merely for his skill with the sword; he was a hell of a mage.

And Wutai had the advantage of fighting on their own turf.

They had trained in HQ, so the layout was familiar to them. As a flaming, screaming phantom soared by him, Angeal flicked his weapon perfunctorily-just an inch shy of the jugular before jabbing inwards-and the ungodly howling ceased. The room was a flickering tableau of orchestrated massacre...unearthly and unseemly. A part of him...an _ugly_ part of him, insisted that this was proper. That this was his job, but it wasn’t...not anymore. An inverted...almost vortexual sound made itself apparent...like a low-frequency sonic boom and he watched as Genesis leapt away at the last moment; twisted in a kind of evasive circumvolution as the space he’d just evacuated twisted and warped; as bones shattered and the Graviga worked its lethal magic. Maroon soaked the floor and it was something wrought in a precise but lackadaisical violence...a symphony of the macabre and Angeal focused elsewhere.

He’d come prepared.

 _How_ Genesis had come prepared, he didn’t want to know. He could only assume the redhead had kept such...ornaments for situations such as this. And it would save them. Really, it would be the _only_ thing that would save them...but the causality of it left him with a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He would have to come home to Willow and explain to her what had happened. She would want to walk him through it, he was sure of it...and he didn’t know if he could stand it at the given moment. Genesis would have to go home to Saoirse and act the part of the father, have to put on the face. He didn’t know how they did it. A body slammed into him and he reacted without thinking...brought his sword up and through...blinked as he was chest to chest with he-who-was-nameless but was looking at him...looking at him as blood spilled over his lips...as he choked on his own bodily fluids.

A fugue.

It felt like that...like a distinct, tyrannical moment out of space and time...like the cosmos stopped whirling and all he could see was his opponent...all he could hear was his labored...dying breath. Angeal could hear his heartbeat-his own heartbeat-slamming in his ears, could suddenly feel everything with every nerve in his body. The sounds of the battle were faint...the flashes of fire distant...like weak candles flickering in a static wind. He was separate from it...staring at nothing...nothing but brown, defiant eyes and red-slathered, sneering teeth as hot...copper-smelling eupnia washed over his visage. It made him want to scream, but he didn’t think anyone would hear him...didn’t think anyone could _see_ him and his sword hilt was wet and hot.

_”-Geal!”_

He blinked...blinked again-couldn’t shake the sense of distance-he took a great, gasping breath. The body before him was yanked to the side and suddenly there were hands on his shoulders. They grasped him, shook him and he was looking into eyes as sapphire as his own...wide, urgent, and _angry_. Slowly, he came back to reality. It lurched forth...like a wind-up video camera; in flashes...in vague movements and there was blood on his face-

“Angeal!”

Angeal jerked and it was a full-body thing; came to and nearly threw Genesis off as reality slammed into him like a freight train. Around them, the battle was petering out, but there were still more coming...though they came slowly now...with great caution. They’d have to sweep the lower levels, he acknowledged...have to go through the whole, abominable maze of it to make sure there were no stragglers, no hidden monstrosities. Another shake, and his ire rose to the surface.

“I’m fine” he snapped.

“Like hell you are” Genesis snarled. “Get your shit together Angeal, we’re not done yet.”

And they weren’t.

They weren’t...and they weren’t. It felt endless...felt like a great, blue tide washing forth...soaring upwards and into them. On and on and even when the surge of it became scattered it was still overwhelming, still far more than he’d ever anticipated. _How_ Hojo had accomplished something so vast was beyond him...he didn’t even care to contemplate it. Angeal didn’t have the fortitude, or the energy. The men were tired, they were all tired and when a dark, cloud-like shape boiled out of the depths of what might as well have been a road to the Abyss, he nearly gave way...nearly fell before it all. He didn’t know who he was...only that he fell like the rest of them...eventually. Like Rosso...like the giant of a man...like the girl with the orange twin sabers...he fell. He fell and the rest fell...and then there was silence…

...A ringing...finite silence.

It seemed almost too much to ask...to wish that it was over ...but for the most part, it was. Half-staggering in the center of the room, struggling to keep his eyes open...Angeal relinquished his sword and it fell to the ground with a clatter. One of the men-an old member of his unit, he acknowledged-stepped forward to aid him, but he waved him away. Genesis was ramrod straight...his eyes on the entrance to Deepground...but every so often his eyes would flicker to the girl...the one with the sabers...almost as if they were hopeful. Angeal wanted to tell him that she was dead...that she couldn’t have survived the shot that passed from one temple to the other...but he didn’t have the heart or the energy. The minutes ticked by...five...ten...thirty...forty...and the redhead gestured perfunctorily; lifted his hand-fanlike-and then closed his fingers into a tight fist, making a circular motion as he did so.

Disengagement.

The sound of it...anyway. All around them, the men stood down...those that knew what the gesture meant anyway, and the others who didn’t followed suit. There was a groan from the left...followed by a swift, ringing gunshot and Angeal closed his eyes to drown out the noise.

“I want all of you to get cleaned up and go home.”

His childhood friend’s voice was a ringing authority in the pin-drop silence. After a moment, he appeared to amend his statement.

“All of you in the general patrol force. I need the rest of you, the vets, to arrange a patrol and someone to report to Lazard, he’ll want a status update. Tell him I’ll be up in a minute.” When no one moved, he narrowed his eyes. “I know I’m not your Commander anymore, and that I’ve never Commanded some of you, but that’s a fucking order.”

They dispersed.

Slowly, granted...but they dispersed. Gathering himself, Angeal managed to ask one of his old platoon members to show his fellow officers where the showers were before walking backwards so he could rest against a wall. The receptionist’s area was ruined...unsalvageable, really. It would all need to be replaced. They’d need city workers in to remove the bodies...they’d need to _identify_ bodies so they could send letters and caskets to families. Paperwork. The noise that left his lips was pained. Quiet, but agonized and he sensed that Genesis was looking at him without having to glance his way. _Paperwork_. The idea was nearly enough to drive him into hysterics. Because he was _done_ , he’d been done. Enough was enough and-

“-Hey.”

It took him a moment to refocus, to acknowledge that there was someone speaking to him. When he did, Angeal noted that Genesis was a wreck. He was covered in grime...his shirt was drenched in blood, and some part of him wanted to hysterically demand where his uniform was. It was irrational, but nothing about this was rational. A hand on his bicep-sudden, abrupt-and he nearly jumped out of his skin. The redhead before him made what he supposed was meant to be a soothing sound, but didn’t really help anything at all.

“Talk to me” was the urgent plea. “Angeal, you gotta talk to me.”

It seemed such an impossible request...initially. Seemed something far away...fantastic and ridiculous...but he managed it.

“Paperwork” he blurted. “All the _paperwork_.”

For a moment, it seemed like Genesis might laugh. And he really, truly would have punched him if he’d laughed, but there was a hysterical, almost unhinged look in those blue eyes that he didn’t like, and Genesis didn’t laugh, he merely rubbed a hand over his face and for a moment his expression contorted...became something pained and grimacing.

“This isn’t SOLDIER” was the even response. “There is no fucking paperwork. Somebody else is going to do it. I’ll report to Lazard, but that’s all I’m doing. Get cleaned up and go home.” A pause. “Go to Gillian’s, Angeal. Just go.”

 It didn’t occur to him to question it...he was so desperate to get out of there that when he moved to leave and the older man let him...he didn’t think twice. Angeal didn’t see the way the redhead’s countenance morphed into that of agony. He didn’t see...could only think of what was ahead as he weaved his way through countless… _countless_ corpses...that maybe he should stop and take someone with him. And he thanked Gaia for enhanced hearing, because it was the only thing that gave him pause...the only thing that made him turn back around and go get that someone. Because Genesis was strong...sometimes he was _so strong_ he appeared vicious, when that viciousness was a shield for a terrible, heart-wrenching sensitivity to that which was around him. In later days, he would reflect that there was one thing that made him grateful to SOLDIER that horrible, awful day.

And it was the fact that when the doors to HQ closed behind him, he was still able to hear Genesis become violently, uncontrollably sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry for killing off so much of Deepground in one go :/  
> -And yes I killed Rosso first because fighting her in DoC was a bitch.  
> -This chapter doesn't answer a lot of questions, I'm aware, and yes, I left Weiss out for a reason.  
> I'm sorry, again, for the absence.


	9. Chapter 9

It took two weeks to process everything. 

Two long, tedious, _traumatic_ weeks until the Deepground debacle was over and done with. Gazing out of one of HQ’s floor-to-ceiling windows, Genesis still couldn’t shake the feeling of terrible unrest in his physicality. It was a pervasive, niggling sensation that-once activated by combat-wouldn’t go away. He was accustomed to it, of course. Granted, it hadn’t happened in a very, very long time, but it was something that SOLDIERs suffered often. Battle made you restless, made you resent normalcy and redefine it as mundanity. The former Commander had long ago learned to push such feelings aside; to process them and send them off into the psychical beyond. It was no good to dwell on them. Even during his time enlisted, it didn’t do him any good because it meant that he was always itching for his next high until the eve of battle fell. The stagnance between the bloodshed became a yawning, warped void of dissatisfaction. Such thoughts leaned too far into the psychopathic for his liking, even if he’d been trained to acknowledge that they were normal. 

They’d lost forty six. 

Grimacing, the redhead supposed that he couldn’t call them _men_ anymore, because it was a generalizable, military-based terminology that no longer existed. _’Personelle’_ was slightly better, but still felt official and stiff-collar in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t miss SOLDIER. It was an entirely different thing to miss the categorization of an organization rather than its agenda. Sometimes he missed the order...and that was it. Genesis felt very Sephiroth-y when he missed the order so he tried not to do it a lot, but it was still a very present sensation at times. And it was a bitch to settle down...he wasn’t ignoring that. He would be very hardily stupid if he ignored that, but he _wanted_ to. He envied the average person’s ability to shove away boredom by watching a TV show or going to the movies. Sometimes he was absolutely green with it, and he knew that was irrational as well, but it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to be able to do that. 

It was hard, however, to adhere to the mundane when you had to find a place to bury hundreds of corpses.

They’d settled, eventually, with a plot of land between Kalm and Midgar. Realistically, it was the only large enough space available to them that wouldn’t impede vehicular traffic or confuse the hell out of people. It was still in the finalization process because they had to fight with the Agricultural and Environmental Departments to do it. That specific focal of topography was rather ferociously designated as protected land. It had taken years for any sort of ecological growth to return to any place near Midgar, and digging up that ecological growth to bury lots of dead people made lots of living people-biologists, specifically-very angry. Aerith had a seat on the council, which made things a little bit easier. ‘Easier’ of course in a way that eating rice with a toothpick made it easier than just shoving your face into the bowl. Ridiculous, but still a little bit less messy. Genesis, Angeal, and Lazard sat through six successive eight hour meetings that laid out exactly how they planned to stash their morbid cargo. Because, as it turned out, you had to worry about morbid cargo being surfaced by erosion. And erosion didn’t even equate to chronology; sometimes it just equated to a hefty rainstorm. 

Cremation was not an option.

Maybe before, when they had giant reactors that would simply acidify massive quantities of flesh, it would have been a considerable facet; and that didn’t count as cremation anyway. Midgar as it was now, however, only had five morticians and they were all fairly sure if they approached them with the idea of turning a thousand or so bodies into ash they would retire promptly and without fanfare. And so they had to come up with a sublevel concept for a massive grave; complete with a drainage system, an ecologically friendly foundation and structure, a monitoring system, and a nice up-top marking system that identified each individual person buried there as _‘LFS 1-1456’_. Because humanity and ethicality dictated that they call them something other than _’blue pesky motherfuckers in great numbers now deceased’._. Snorting in a half-hearted, self-deprecating sort of way, Genesis looked down at his coffee cup. 

He knew they were SOLDIERS.

_He knew_ , but if he didn’t treat the situation with some form of levity he was going to go absolutely nuts. Genesis was not an idiot, nor did he have a total disregard for human life. He recognized that each of the individuals the labs processed for biopsy had some type of microchip in them. They were synaptic net drives...apparently; hooked up to what he could only assume was a type of supercomputer in the bowels of Deepground. He imagined that it was the only reason they’d not noticed them for so long...living just below them. Of course you weren’t going to notice a massive gathering of enemy forces that were mind-controlled into stealth and total silence. The fact that they were, essentially, slaves was not something he had overlooked. The former First also acknowledged, however, that his professionalism played some part in the acceptance of it all. He didn’t let it torture him because he couldn’t. 

Processing this was no different from processing all the other battles they’d fought against people who thought they were doing the right thing...or when _he_ thought he was doing the right thing. As a SOLDIER, he had to accept that...had to look at it roughly, as a man, because it was that or descend into despair again, and he’d had enough of despair. He had people-friends and family-who supported him, and who he needed to support. Sometimes he did such a Gaia-awful job of being sane and collected that he wondered why anyone bothered to stick around, but it didn’t change the reality of the situation. And, sure; maybe in earlier years he’d have thrown a tantrum about it. Maybe he’d have had some sort of massive, psychotic break and binged himself into a deep well of fornication, inebriation and overall property destruction but he’d have rather hung himself than done that when he had a daughter who looked up to him. If he couldn’t learn from how he had treated people in the past, he had no idea why he was bothering to stay alive. 

Not that he’d done a great job of staying alive to begin with. 

Closing his eyes, Genesis exhaled and leaned his forehead against the cool glass surface of the windows before him. He was always angry. _Angry_ seemed like a tame word when he compared it to what he was feeling, but articulation often escaped him when he was overwrought. Maybe enough was enough. Repressing a bitter chuckle, the redhead clutched the handle of his coffee cup and attempted to reign in his thoughts. It wasn’t as easy as that...he knew. It wasn’t enough to _say_ ‘enough’, and just walk away from all the self-destruction he’d sown over the years. He wasn’t going to waltz out of this a new man...or whatever you wanted to call it. It wasn’t just about correcting himself like he could piss off and don a new metaphorical suit of good intent. He had never believed in the concept of metamorphosis, but he didn’t believe in the concept of _’a mudpuppy never changes its spots’_ either. Doing his best with what he was given was exorbitantly difficult, but it was all he could do. 

Angeal didn’t deal with this sort of thing well.

At the risk of sounding completely insensitive, Genesis was never surprised. His childhood friend had worked hard to get to where he was; was motivated by sheer will alone sometimes and the amount of effort it took for the dark-haired former First to recover was something that he did not fail to admire. Angeal had always been a hard worker; always steadfast, always honest and always positive. He envied that too...that positivism. Genesis was not someone who looked at silver linings. If he were feeling particularly morbid, he might say that he didn’t believe in them at all. And, sure, he could joke about things, but it didn’t change the fact that he was chronically disposed to pessimism. There were times when he wondered why the younger man bothered getting to know him at all. And _then_ there were times-when he was feeling particularly pissy-that he wondered if Gillian’s son had only bothered to be friends with him because he felt sorry for him. It was-after all-rather hard to walk away from someone whose life had consisted of extremely unhealthy relationships. 

Now, of course, it was different.

He heard from Angeal very rarely, sometimes not at all, and he understood it, but he also resented it. After all, he had _been there_ , and it wasn’t like _Willow_ had been there...but Angeal wanted to spend his time being comforted by his fucking girlfriend. What-he had wondered snarkily-was so much more comforting about _her_?! The answer, of course, was quite obvious because Genesis was about as comforting as a rose bush. Meaning he looked pretty great but when it came to leaning on him, things became pointy and uncomfortable very quickly. That didn’t, of course, mean that some part of him that was accustomed to his friend talking to him was at peace with the concept. Willow was good for Angeal...but there was once a time when he and Angeal had been enough for each other. Platonically, of course...decades ago. Sometimes he missed those times, but he acknowledged that wishing for them was fantastical and ridiculous. There were also times he wished that he’d never kissed Sephiroth in the Sleeping Forest; wished that he’d let the man just up and horny himself all over the forest; but of course there was nothing he could do about that either. 

Talking to Saoirse was difficult. 

Difficult in the sense that he had to explain to her...late, _late_ at night come home from the battle with Deepground toting his blood soaked leathers...he had to explain to her that war wasn’t something that you could always avoid. Genesis also had to explain to Saorise that because of his history with war, there was some expectation on his shoulders to protect the populace. She didn’t like it; of course she didn’t. What child wanted their parent to take up arms and possibly die to defend them and those around them? None that he’d ever heard of. And it didn’t matter how much he explained about his past...it was still that; _the past_. There was absolutely no reason, in his daughter’s eyes, that he should have to relive that...that _she_ should have to watch him relive that. There were still things they had to do to ensure that Deepground was gone...and she was so against him involving himself that he’d relented a bit...asked Lazard to send down some men he trusted rather than do it personally. The sweep was clean...for the most part. But he knew that things like this were never so easy, and so he offered her no reassurances of things he couldn’t guarantee. Instead, he took her out to lunch as soon as he was able, and they talked of things unrelated...because it was necessary.

“Hey.” 

Genesis very nearly dropped his coffee. 

Reflecting back on the moment, the redhead grudgingly admitted that he only ever seemed prone to dropping things in HQ. This was-most likely-due to a preformulated assumption that HQ was the last place where someone would have the balls to sneak up on him. HQ was, of course, not the same as it used to be, so his ignorance was rather to his own detriment considering he’d already gotten snuck up on by Valentine. This was, of course, not Sephiroth’s possible-but-more-than-likely-verified father. It was Aerith and Angeal, the former of which was looking tired and the latter who was looking like he wanted to be somewhere else. For a moment, Genesis felt a twinge of sympathy, because it wasn’t _him_ that Lazard had asked to sit in on a seven hour...horrifically early-commencing committee regarding the finalization of the burial plot. He’d come up later, around 0800, for moral support, but it didn’t change the fact that the former Director hadn’t asked him to be there. Behind the two, the remainder of the members of the meeting were slowly filing out, looking equally as miserable and harangued. 

They’d painted it white. 

This part of headquarters, anyway...opposite to the dark, formidable greyish hue that he was so accustomed to broken up by the occasional, blinding fluorescent. You couldn’t subtract the technological, clean-cut atmosphere of it; but at least it felt more like the professional buildings you saw throughout the rest of Midgar than a somber, tall, and secret-infested dungeon. Somebody had bothered with plants, he didn’t know who, but it wasn’t intolerable. Administration ran dangerously close to Debriefing-if he could even call Debriefing _’Debriefing’_ anymore-and this was fairly near to Deck 49, whose floor was sunken and reachable by a series of four wide steps. Upon reaching the bottom, one would come in contact with a strange, vaguely octagonal bench, and then a set of wide windows. It was here that Genesis was watching his friend and sister approach; before the view, with the rest of the rabble heading to the long hallway opposite them and out of sight. Narrowing his eyes at the bench, the redhead acknowledged that someone else had deigned to paint it white and place a large potted begonia atop it. It was so absurd-as a former SOLDIER-to see begonias where he used to eat lunch between training exercises that he resolutely ignored it most of the time.

Angeal was looking at him apprehensively. 

Blowing a wayward strand of hair from his face, Genesis kept his expression neutral as he set his coffee mug down on the offending table and braced his palms on the surface, learning forward as he did so. He was familiar with the expression; it was one of a kind of taut consternation...anticipatory yet somehow resigned. Somewhat grumpily, the older man wondered when he’d gotten so horrible that his best friend now approached their conversations with clenched teeth and low expectations. Aerith-thankfully-did not have the same bearing, and he was glad she didn’t because it was the one thing that kept him from saying something snarky, obnoxious, and extremely off-putting. Angeal was also likely aware of the fact that he hadn’t bothered to talk to Genesis since the whole ‘grave debacle’, and was waiting for him to spontaneously combust.

_’Good!’_ some childish, neglected, and irrational part of him shrieked before he strangled it. 

Instead, he did his best to keep his facial features pleasantly unattached before opening his mouth.

“How’d it go?”

“Better” Aerith sighed explosively, sliding onto the bench and pushing the begonia off to the side with a tad more force than was typical of her. “Most of the Environmental branch has settled down.” She smiled, but it was wan. “Whatever Architectural cooked up to make the structure more green won their favor. Even if it took a few weeks to do it.” His sister paused and then scrutinized him seriously. “You weren’t invited to the meeting” she said curiously. “And I know you don’t ship out, what are you doing here?” 

 

“I want this done and over with as much as you do” Genesis muttered, echoing his sister’s movement on the opposite side of the bench. “Thought I’d drop by. Saorise slept over at a friend’s, she won’t be home until late afternoon I reckon.” He paused. “How’s it going ‘Geal?” the former Commander asked loudly as the man in question checked his phone for the upteenth time. 

“Good” was the blunt statement as his friend texted furiously for a moment. “Doesn’t look like they’ll need the Force on this one.” 

“There might be some picketing” Aerith pointed out, craning her neck to look upwards at the officer next to her. “That one biologist...Remming, he was really steaming. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started something.” 

“I’ll ask if we can station a few cruisers close by on the date” was the weary reply. “But I don’t want to make a spectacle of it if the Chief says it isn’t necessary. Just because this event required me to play the SOLDIER doesn’t mean that I’m going to pull prior rank and make a militia stand around.” 

“I could do that” Genesis muttered, only half-joking.

A dark, hairy brow was raised in his direction.

“You’re not cute” Aerith sniffed before his childhood friend could say anything. 

“I’ve got to go” Angeal said abruptly. “I promised Willow I’d meet her for lunch, and I want to stop at home beforehand.” He shot an apologetic glance at the two of them. “Sorry, but with all this...I haven’t had any time to spend with her outside of talking through this.” His eyes shifted to Genesis, and the contriteness in his expression was much stronger. “I know I haven’t been around…” 

“Just go” Genesis groaned, waving a hand. “S’not like Aerith’s horrible company, give her some credit.” 

“Yeah” Aerith giggled, trying and failing to look offended as she laughed. “Cut me some slack, Angeal, would you?” 

For a moment, the redhead’s former comrade looked taken aback. To his credit, he recovered swiftly, but the shock in his expression didn’t hurt any less. The atmosphere became, quite abruptly, slightly awkward. Ducking his head, Genesis worried a loose grain on the tabletop. 

“Just like that?” Angeal asked quietly. “No sarcasm? No jibes regarding how _we_ haven’t talked through it? No-”

“-Angeal!” Genesis snapped, curling his hands into fists on the tabletop. As he did so, that familiar resignation crossed the dark-haired man’s visage. Only this time, it didn’t feel like disappointment...it felt like...like it was _anticipated_ , and therefore relieving. Taking a deep breath and swallowing down his hurt, the scarlet-haired ex-First blinked rapidly before continuing. “Sometimes” he said tightly. “Sometimes my life isn’t always a circus.” When Angeal opened his mouth-presumably to apologize-he held up a hand. “And _sometimes_ ” he continued. “I’m not always the fucking clown.” He laughed, bitterly, when his childhood friend looked contrite. “Don’t” he muttered. “Don’t, ‘Geal, okay? I’m saying it’s alright, so let’s just...let’s just not push that envelope...not right now. I don’t want to step into the ring today, just so you know I’ve still got some fight in me. Right now, I want you to have a good time with Willow, so go and do that, alright?”

“That’s all it takes?” was the the ominously quiet response. “Some _bloodshed_ , and suddenly you’re not at everyone and anyone’s throat-?!”

“-Fuck _off_ Angeal!” Genesis barked, half-standing before forcing himself to sit. “Just leave, alright? I’m trying to be _nice_ , and you’re not letting me, so just _fuck off!_ ” 

He took his time acceding. 

Angeal, that is...he took his time. Blue eyes raked his visage...as if somehow they could dredge the answers from his expression without communicating at all. Genesis wanted to tell him that if he tried, the reality of it would be misconstrued, but there was too much of a possibility for debate there...and so he let it be. Aerith was silent, and he was, for once, grateful for her lack of intervention. This was, ultimately, between the two of them. He was sorry that she had to witness it, but there was no other way he was going to get it across. 

“I’ll text you” Angeal said finally, already halfway to the stairs. “Later.” 

“Right” Genesis replied hastily, his eyes sliding away in a desperate attempt to avoid further conversation. 

He watched the begonias sway in the light breeze from the air conditioner with a distinct feeling of detachment. There was the sound of receding footsteps; up the stairs and then over the linoleum of the hallway...fading gradually before taking a sharp right to the elevator. Only when he heard the lift doors close did he allow himself to exhale...slumping slightly in his seat. Fingers on his fisted hand gave him pause, and he looked up to see Aerith leaning towards him, her expression genuine and open. 

“He shouldn’t have-” 

“-He’s right” the redhead cut in quietly. When his sister looked like she might protest, he shook his head. “Aerith, I’ve been...an _asshole_. I’m always an asshole, and there’s not a lot I can do to change that. But there’s absolutely no reason that you, or ‘Geal, or anyone else should have to...expect that.” 

Another small, dainty hand joined the one already atop his...squeezing as it did so.

“Genesis” Aerith said quietly, tactfully dodging his comment. “ _Are_ you okay?”

Looking at her from across the table, the aforementioned man acknowledged that it was a difficult question to answer. ‘Okay’ was a relative term….highly adjustable, really. He could say it and not mean it, had certainly said it and not meant it before. It was more complicated than that, of course...but it still bore consideration. He wanted to be able to assure her...as her older brother...he really did. At the same time, Genesis was aware that doing so would make it a lie. Swallowing, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. 

“I’m trying” he said hoarsely. “I really am.” 

There was silence, and he assumed she was trying to collect her thoughts. 

“We don’t really talk” she said bitterly, and he looked at her in surprise. Smiling crookedly, Aerith tilted her head. “We don’t” she said gently. “Not like most siblings do.” 

Genesis couldn’t help the incredulous, slightly self-deprecating laugh that spilled over his lips.

“We’re not exactly _’most siblings’_ ” he chuckled dryly. 

“No” was the amused statement. “We aren’t. But...maybe we should...more.” 

“We’re around each other a lot,” the redhead replied, tossing his hair back. “It’s not like we need to catch up or anything.” 

“Yeah, but there’s other things to talk about” Aerith sighed, pulling her hands away and sitting up. “Like Mom.” 

“ _Your_ Mom” Genesis corrected carefully. “I never knew her.” 

Picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, his sister smiled, but it was sad. 

“She’s your Mom too” was the quiet response. “And she loved you a lot...missed you...all the time.” Bright eyes grew melancholy for a moment. “I _know_ she loved you. She cried about you...when she thought I couldn’t see. I don’t know what Gast did about that...I can’t remember. When we tried to escape-” Here, Aerith’s voice became halting, became hitched and tight with grief. “-When we tried to leave, she talked about coming to get you.” A watery laugh. “ _’We’re going to get your brother, Aerith’_ , that’s what she said to me. She was so excited. I think maybe, it wasn’t just me that drove her to try to escape...it was you...she wanted you _so bad_ she was willing to move mountains to get to you.” Those eyes...so similar to his own yet not, filled with tears. “Willing to die to keep me safe.” Genesis had leaned forward to say something, anything really, but she was already wiping her eyes...clearly trying to put up a brave front. “ “I...don’t remember much about her. Sometimes...it feels like every day I forget more.” Aerith looked at him sadly. “It’s scary” she whispered. “To feel like you’ll forget someone you loved so much...just because you’re outliving them, you know?” 

It took him several minutes before he felt he was together enough to reply to her. When he spoke, it was hoarse with sadness and despair.

“Yeah” Genesis replied. “I do.” Taking her hand this time...he shook it gently between his. “I _really_ do.” Looking down at their gathered palms, he closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Aerith” he muttered. “I overlook you, a lot.” 

“You don’t” was the exasperated reply, tinged with fondness. Aerith flicked his ring finger playfully before patting his knuckles. “Genesis, you have a daughter. A beautiful, well behaved daughter who loves you to smithereens.” When the redhead looked at her, she smiled again, but this time it wasn’t so sad. “ _I_ didn’t raise her to make her into the young woman she is today, you did. That’s all you, so give yourself some credit there. You had a lot to deal with all at once, and I had, and have, Zack. I had Gillian to talk to, and now I have Willow too. I’m not alone, but you were alone...more alone than any of us...even if we were right there.” Genesis’ sister bopped his chin when he jutted it out slightly, but her expression had sobered. “Sometimes, I worry that you’re still all alone.” Aerith’s hand traveled upward to tap his forehead. “In there.” Again, she drew back. “I’m sorry, for bringing up Sephiroth again...after so long. But I couldn’t keep that...I couldn’t keep that secret.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to” Genesis replied, ignoring the painful twinge at the mention of his partner. A silence fell between them again, but this time it was slightly stilted. “Have you…” he cleared his throat and gritted his teeth. “...Found anything?”

Exhaling...Aerith shook her head. 

“Nothing that makes sense” she whispered. “There was something...something far North.” 

“It-” again, the redhead paused before plowing forward. “-It _happened_ far North” he pointed out. 

“Not this far” was the bitter return. “Not in the Sleeping Forest.” 

Genesis felt as if someone had abruptly punched him in the gut. 

It was such a powerful, disbelieving emotion that he swayed slightly on the bench before righting himself. There was a dull ringing in his ears, and he was vaguely aware that his sister was looking at him with alarm, but he held up his hand to beg for her patience even as his mind whirled frantically. 

“The _Sleeping Forest?!_ ” he demanded, breathless. 

“Yes…” Aerith said slowly. “But...it’s...hard to explain. It feels static and muted...it’s not a physical presence. It’s connected to the Lifestream but it’s not...it’s…”

“-It’s caught between” Genesis said harshly, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Somewhere black, soundless, and necrotic. It’s trapped and something stands before it, something monstrous...something _wrong_.” 

“How do you know that?!” Aerith demanded, sounding suddenly upset. “You said you don’t talk to the Planet!” 

“I don’t” the former Commander replied through clenched teeth. “But Sephiroth and I had a mission there...long ago. We never really resolved it...figured it was an inside job and- _oh Gaia_.” Unable to go on, he dropped his head into his hands and took a deep, desperate breath. “Fuck, Aerith, you could have said anything but that, and I’d have been able to walk away. Right now...I was _ready_.” Still, she was silent, and he took that time to pull himself together as best he could. “Tell me” he said flatly;

“Tell me _everything._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Look I said this chapter would explain things, but it just adds more things on top of the things. *flails about* 
> 
> **Possibly not-so-fun-fact:** _'A mudpuppy never changes its spots'_ is an alteration of _'a leopard never changes its spots_. But the mudpuppy is in FFXIV, and I could not think of any spotty monsters in FFVII. 
> 
> -We may get another Genesis chapter after this. I was, originally, intending to introduce a vital OC to this installment that I've been chewing my figurative nails to bring in. It didn't, however, fit in with where Genesis and Aerith took things because, apparently, I have no control over the characters. And they need to introduce themselves to Genesis for it to work so I may break with the flip flopping POV in order to sate my rabid need but we'll see.


	10. Chapter 10

"We'll need to confiscate the computer."

Looking upwards and squinting his eyes against the glare of half a dozen headlamps, Genesis scowled. The map in his hands was rudimentary at best... unreadable at worst. He was standing in a large, open-floor space; industrial in nature with some technological facets. A week beforehand, the area had been lit up, floor to ceiling, but most of Deepground's facilities had been dismantled and shut down. This was, ultimately, to his satisfaction...the sooner this was buried, the sooner he could focus on more pressing matters. Being sublevel was less than ideal; it reminded him...a little bit, of the labs. Not in the sense that it would have reminded Sephiroth, but in that habitual, knee-jerk sense that all SOLDIERs possessed from years receiving mako injections in dimly lit, on the side of too-cold rooms.

 

There were questions.

Of course there were questions. The whole thing was a massive textbook of questions, but the answers were dead and buried...or missing. Shifting his flashlight from his right hand to his left, the redhead returned his gaze to the map before writing it off as a lost cause. He knew his way around well enough at this point...and he didn’t really feel the need to familiarize himself with the place. Management had plans to gut it. Take out the wiring and salvage whatever parts could be found...clear out what could be recycled and fill the whole damn thing up with concrete or dirt. Aerith insisted that it ought to be something _’ecologically friendly’_ ; so it was probably going to be dirt. He supposed that there was some element of dark nostalgia there...because people had lived there...if you could call being a brainwashed militant something _’alive’_ at all. He didn’t really know.

They’d wanted him.

Nodding at the former field sergeant who had spoken, Genesis stepped away from the console he’d been standing next to and aimed his torch back at the dark...bereft hallway behind him. Someone coughed; the sound agonizingly loud in the barren...echoing space, but he ignored it. They’d had enough time to figure out that the whole thing was anti-Shinra. He could get behind that, but he couldn’t get behind Hojo leading the project. His degradation...the events of his degradation were a marked path in the old files...like they’d been hoping for him to go batshit and AWOL and flop into their arms like a sad, sick fish so they could bend him to their will. There was talk of ‘brotherhood’...of unification. Whatever this was...not all of them were for the regime. The Tsviets certainly weren’t...there was enough evidence to determine that they didn’t like the enslavement...but their ‘new world’ was just a shinier, prettier form of enslavement.

He’d rather have died.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Genesis shifted his shoulders and then promptly kicked over a trash can. This earned him some glares that quickly morphed into rolling eyes and mutters when he smiled at the team in question before traipsing off to check on the other group. Ducking underneath a temporarily erected scaffold, the former Commander let the overhead rung carry his momentum with one arm before dropping down to the lower landing with a satisfying **_*thud*_**. Here, Angeal was pouring over a bunch of half-destroyed knicknacks with Cloud and Zack. His childhood friend shot him a dour look before returning to his task. Snorting, the older man returned Fair’s nod before finding a crate to sit on.

The militant persona was cute until it wasn’t anymore.

He’d learned this a long time ago, and the idea that he’d be weak enough to be swayed by a group of people who hadn’t seen half as much combat as he had was laughable. And, sure, Deepground had the advantage of mind control, but they didn’t have the advantage of brotherhood. Actual brotherhood; not brotherhood born from neurological chips and Munchausen Syndrome. If he ever said that to Angeal, he'd probably hang himself afterwards; but a cohesive, enslaved, entity had its flaws as much as anything else. There was no room for creativity or individuality. Tyranny sure; but a boring sort of tyranny. Kind of like how you could get a marlboro to go on a rampage, but you couldn't get it to rampage wearing a feather boa, scarlet lipstick and a department’s worth of high heels; no fun...no fun at all.

"Looks good here."

Genesis grimaced and tilted his chin; sticking his jaw out and raising an eyebrow at Angeal. The man in question looked momentarily mollified before he sat down on the crate next to him with a sigh.

"Yup" the redhead replied slowly. "Nice and dark and wet-"

"-Don't go any further than that" was the dour, interrupting groan. When the older man affected an expression of moroseness his childhood friend nudged his shoulder. "I mean it."

"You know me too well" Genesis complained. "I want a divorce."

"We'll settle the terms later then" was the good-natured reply. "You can keep all the memories I have of every poor soul you dragged into the top bunk while I was trying to sleep when we were new recruits. I'll keep the memories of all the times you drooled on my field blanket."

"There weren't that many times" the scarlet-haired man hedged.

"Our bunk was replaced" Angeal said flatly. "Three times, and then they moved us to corner cots."

"Not the _fucking_ " Genesis scoffed, waving a hand. "The drooling."

He was fixed with a dark and hairy brow.

"I have pictures" was the sly reply. The expression of slyness melted into contriteness. “But I’ve got to go, therapy in an hour.” Genesis suppressed the urge to say something terrible, mostly because it looked like the blue-eyed ex-First wanted to continue but wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. They remained in semi-awkward silence for a minute while Cloud and Zack muttered to one another. “...Are we okay?”

This was said hesitantly, as if Angeal was afraid to go there at all. For a minute, the redhead felt a twinge of guilt, but he shoved it down and forced himself to look at the question neutrally.

“I know I’m screwed up” he replied slowly. When his friend made as if to interrupt, he raised a hand. “You know it, Angeal. And _I_ know you want to fix it. Sometimes, you try so hard to fix things you end up making them worse, and I’m saying that as your friend.” Genesis sighed. “Maybe...maybe it’s time for both of us to accept that there are some things you can’t heal from...some wounds that never close.”

“It’s hard for me to accept that” Angeal said weakly.

The older man smiled, and it was understanding.

“Yeah, I know. And it does mean something, ‘Geal, okay? I don’t make it easier when I complain all the time...when I’m ready to tell you or anyone else to fuck off at the drop of a hat. I’m working on that, but Sephiroth...what I did, what I _had_ to do, you don’t get it. I can’t forgive myself, I can’t forgive him, and I have to live with that.”

“If it’s trauma-”

“-Of course it’s fucking trauma” the former Commander said irritably, kicking at the grating under his boots. “All of it’s trauma; you have trauma, I have trauma. I went to the therapist, it didn’t work. Which is funny, because you knocked me for talking about therapy as a kid, sometimes that still stings a little. Good for you, that the therapist helps you. Good for anyone who can get by without a therapist, but those _anypeople_ aren’t me. I know you want me to be, _I_ want to be...but I can’t, and I can’t-” he paused and closed his eyes.

“-I can’t be your friend if I can’t do this; I can’t be anyone’s friend. I can barely take care of my kid, barely work or function or do normal… _people_ things. You have a family, Angeal. And sure, I have Aerith, but it doesn’t work like that for me. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I’m just a bitter son of a bitch, but...do me, and you, a favor and just...live. I’m gonna be here; maybe we find something regarding Seph, maybe we won’t, but I’ll still be here. And we can work together, sure, but stop expecting me to bounce back...because when he died...when I killed him, I ripped a hole the size of the universe across the elasticity of my positivism. Sometimes I fall, sometimes I float in this aimless...dark space...but I can’t go back. I don’t know how to.”

“That hurts me” Angeal said at length, his voice hoarse.

“I know” Genesis repeated, his voice thin. “But I can’t help you there, Angeal. I really can’t. I can’t help you if I can’t help myself.”

The man in question’s phone buzzed and he sighed exasperatedly, fingering his badge before pulling the device out of his pocket and giving it a look that could have curdled milk.

“I’ve got to go” he said, seeming to waver in his indecision. “But do me a favor, Genesis.” When the older man raised an eyebrow, he put a hand on his shoulder, his visage solemn. “Take care of yourself; if not mentally, physically. And if not for you, for Saoirse. She needs you, even if you think that she’d be better off without you.”

“You’re still the kid I ran to in Banora” the redhead laughed tiredly. “I’m not ignoring that...you were always my hero, Angeal, my first hero before I got so wrapped up in the obsessive poison that was Shinra. The first person I fell in love with, I’m not some batshit insane person talking out of my ass...I’m not blind to what other people do for me. So, yeah, I’ll do that. But you do you, ‘Geal...there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re a SOLDIER. You were a Soldier before you ever got into this shithole, and don’t let me or any other sorry motherfucker tell you otherwise.”

The hug was expected.

The tears were not.

And it wasn’t like Angeal blubbered all over him; it was rather like he got his jaw soggy when he went in for the rib-crushing, spine-shattering, brotherly embrace that knocked the wind out of Genesis’ lungs and left him wheezing over a broad shoulder. Attempting to return your perfunctory man-slap was more difficult when you were suffocating, but the redhead managed it even as he made a sound that he imagined a goldfish might make if stepped on and goldfish could make noise. Upon hearing it, the dark haired first immediately loosened his grip.

“You’re laying the angst on heavy” Genesis complained.

“Like you’re one to talk about angst” was the somewhat unsteady response as Angeal drew back. Nodding at Zack-who looked like he might possibly orgasm from all the camaraderie-the owner of the Buster Sword swiped his radio from one of the crates and buckled it to his belt. “Update me, if you hear anything new.”

“Yeah” the older man snorted, glad to fall back into semi-professionalism. “I’ll let you know if the rats start a riot. Come with your gun and you might get the rodent masses to quiver before your uniformed professionalism.”

Angeal rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips before he turned and began to make his way back to the tarp, his boots hollow-sounding on the corrugated flooring. Once his back was turned, Genesis let his smirk bleed away...relieved that he could, at least...drop the act, even if it was only for a second. Zack called him over to look at what appeared to be an old processor, and he forced himself to focus. Concentrating on the conversation he’d had wouldn’t do him any good; it was the same old song and dance...though maybe some might see it as progress. He was reluctant to write it off, but he didn’t want to get in over his head psychologically smack dab in the middle of a dismantlement project, it was just bad form. He’d promised Saoirse they would go out to dinner after he got off shift, and it was getting dangerously close to ‘late’. The redhead wanted to wrap things up before he bungled his ‘dad-daughter’ date more atrociously than he already had.

Fate, of course, was not on his side.

Cloud announced that he had to leave perhaps ten minutes after they figured out that the processor was useless. This meant that the signing-off procedure in terms of collected ‘contraband’ was left to Genesis and Zack, which was a hell of a lot of paperwork for two people to do considering that the processor wasn’t the only item they’d recovered. Strife had a good excuse, however; he had to check in with Administration because Lazard wanted a work through of the area. The blonde had done the majority of the reconnaissance...and he’d done a smashing job of it. Cloud was quiet, clearly high strung, and extremely OCD, but he was good at what he did. There was absolutely no sense in making him stay.

Thirty minutes into a lovely paperwork-in-the-dark session, Zack declared that Aerith was wanting to discuss opportunities for ecological use of the Deepground facilities. This, Genesis was farily sure he could have said _’fuck you, no’_ to, but he didn’t have the heart because of Aerith and so he was left to squint at a giant pile of ridiculousness by himself while the other team went over their end of the deal across the way. Saoirse texted him soon after that to tell him that Gillian had invited her over for dinner with Vincent. This pissed him off so much that he decided he might as well resign himself to eternal darkness, and so he remained.

Because he was not sitting across the table from Grandpa Valentine.

Scratching out an irritable but professional version of _’hey this piece of trash motherboard was outdated five years ago’_ , the redhead made a face. And it wasn’t like Saoirse _called_ him grandpa; it was just an irrational, poorly justified hatred for a really shitty parent. He didn’t think, at this point, that he could proffer judgement regarding shitty parenting. And, sure, their situations were wildly different, but who the hell knew what they were doing with kids? Not him. Vincent didn’t even know, at the time, that Sephiroth _was_ his kid. And what was he supposed to do? Take out the entirety of the manor in a blaze of Turkish glory? Genesis was fairly sure that that wasn’t in the handbook, and that mass destruction without subtlety wasn’t exactly Intelligence-designated. He could have poisoned them slowly, but Hojo was smart enough to figure it out, and if not Hojo, Gast surely would have. That didn’t change the fact that he was angry. Really, one look at the older man was enough to make Genesis want to wring his neck, but he acknowledged that this might be transference due to his resemblance to his progeny. He couldn’t outright murder someone because they looked a lot like his dead boyfriend.

“Coffee darling?”

Genesis blinked.

There was, once again, the presence of an atrociously bright headlamp that didn’t belong to him. This time, however, it was not attached to someone he knew. Narrowing his eyes to combat the glare, the redhead acknowledged that he had no idea who they were, only that they were wearing dark fatigues and a flight jacket of a similar color. Seeming to sense his discomfort, the stranger pushed his helmet up until the beam was somewhat out of direct line of sight.

This didn’t help anything, because the only thought that crossed the redhead’s mind when his vision cleared was that the individual in question was tragically yummy. Really, that was a poor choice of words, but he was delicious-looking; from his long, buttercup-yellow hair and his golden eyes, to his high, full, but ultimately masculine cheekbones. He had a longish face, but nothing that took away from anything else. His nose was largish too, but in a way that was pleasant, with just a slight downturn that gave him an ever-cheerful, almost playful demeanor, especially considering his lips; which were on the thin side but pretty and flushed all the same. Contrary to his hair; his brows were dark and angular, but not so much that they took away from the arresting nature of his physicality. They were of the same height, though Genesis was slightly bulkier, which did wonders for his ego.

“Did Angeal send you?” he blurted out.

Surprisingly, the question didn’t appear to confuse his abrupt companion. Instead, he laughed, and his voice was velvety, smooth but slightly musical. Frantically, Genesis wondered why the hell he had never noticed him before. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, a long-fingered, pale hand came up to push an errant lock of hair away from that horribly pleasing visage.

“No” was the amused response. “I got called down by the other side. Errand boy, you know, I’m just starting in the refreshment department. It means I’ve got to jog everywhere for everyone, does wonders for the glutes. I thought you could use some, working alone.” A soft _’tsk’_ that should not have sent shivers rolling down his spine like it did. “Your partners left you all alone down here, did they? Shame on them, I wouldn’t leave you alone...not with a face like that.”

Genesis very nearly choked; because _no one_ , got down to the flirting department so hard and so fast except for him. It made him wary in a manner that took the wind straight out of his sails.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Where are my manners?” was the murmured reply as the coffee was set in front of him. “My name is Thierry, Thierry Verville. I don’t bother with the whole surname debacle, so we can get right down to being on a first name basis.” The last part was said with a definitive purr and Genesis wanted to kick him just for stealing his act. “I worked in Intelligence before it all went up in smoke” a smile that was on the _wrong_ side of salacious. “In the best of ways, of course, thanks to you. Took a job in Accounting for a while and couldn’t stand it.” A sigh. “Literally. I couldn't stand at all! Trapped behind a desk, it was tragic. I applied for a job in HQ, but it took them awhile to process me, and now here I am, serving Commander Rhapsodos coffee.” Another smile, this one wider than the last. “I am, quite helplessly, at your service.”

Well, shit.

Genesis took a gulp of the coffee because he was screaming mad and because he didn’t have anything better to do with his hands. He was fairly sure if he left them free he’d throttle Blueberry or whatever his name was, no matter how good he looked. This was a regrettable course of action, because it was scalding hot and burned a path from his tongue to his stomach. It was only logical that his body give up the ghost and succumb to a coughing fit, to which his companion responded with great and terrible enthusiasm. Meaning that he slapped him on the back and it felt like his eyes were going to roll out of their sockets. Out of all the things that alarmed him, this was possibly the most concerning. Normal people did not have that kind of strength. Angeal could pull it off, but he was fairly sure no one else could except maybe Vincent and the dark-haired former Turk had-quite wisely-never laid a finger on him. When he’d recovered, Genesis pushed him away so hard that he stumbled slightly, but recovered in a manner that was so graceful it only made him hate him more.

“Look” he began, his voice scratchy from the heat-related choking. “First of all, you’ve got a lot of nerve. Second of all, I’m _not_ a Commander, and I was never a Commander, I was a slave to a regime. A puppet.”

“Oh but I beg to differ” was the annoyingly pleasant response. “I’ve read about you, you see, it was part of the job description...Intelligence and all. You were good, you led your men well, fairly. Just because you were leading blind doesn’t mean you weren’t anything at all.”

“Fairness doesn’t mean shit when you’re killing your boys for a corrupt cause” Genesis snapped, picking his pen up again. “Thanks for the coffee, but I’m not in the mood to talk. I don’t care if you owned thirty pairs of my old underwear and masturbated to it with a picture of me the tabloids took. I’m not the same man, and I’ve always hated fanservice. So get the fuck out of here.”

“Oh” Thierry simpered, stepping closer instead of moving away. “You think I’m a _fan_ , how adorable.” When Genesis looked outraged, he smiled...and there was something distinctly twisted about it, but that disappeared behind the overall indignation. “Let’s get a few things clear” was the continuation. “I’m not one of your little, shrieking sycophants from years of yore. I’m not going to run about slobbering over your boots or your atrociously red hair, or your playboy ways; I’ve been around too long to fall over because you can bat your eyelashes, darling. But I _do_ know something that you want...something you’d kill for.”

“Yeah?” the scarlet-haired former Commander ground out through gritted teeth. “You better tell me what that is before I wipe the floor with you. I’m about ten seconds away from-”

“-What, _breaking all my bones?_ ” was the sardonic reply. Theirry’s expression was distinctly flirtatious, but also distinctly mocking. “I think I’d _like_ that. I’m all for a romp, especially if there’s blood involved, but I think you’d find it harder to do than you’re anticipating.” He began to pace, and Genesis took note of his stance with increasing alarm. He was trained. He was absolutely trained, and not as a Turk. Despite the fluidity of his movements, he was angling himself inwards, keeping his posture open but not leaving anything vital in clear view. You didn’t learn to move like that unless you were fairly high up in the ranks, ‘till you’d had a hell of a lot of field experience, and Genesis had _never_ seen him in the field. “I’ve heard, you see, of your ventures into the Sleeping Forest...and I know you’re still looking for your paramor.”

He’d had it.

Genesis moved to pin his adversary to the wall, to get him up against the metal plating near the crates he and Angeal had sat on; preferably by the neck. Because _how dare he_?! The pen clattered to the floor and he lunged forward, executed a perfect direct-pivot...the leather of his jacket creaking as he did so...his hand reached out to grasp...to drag...and it closed around-

-Nothing at all.

He had to jerk back abruptly to keep from slamming into the grating himself, had to catch himself on one of the crates so he could use it for leverage in order to turn around. Thierry was exactly where he’d been before. Well, almost exactly, he was slightly to the left, and his expression was expectant. Wary now, Genesis paused and sized him up more carefully.

“Now that I have your attention” was the insultingly-bored drawl. “You should know if you move now, Hojo will know what you’re doing. Going North at this time would be foolhardy.”

“I’m pretty sure I can deal with a decrepit old madman” Genesis snarled.

“Not with the leverage he has at his disposal” was the swift response. A pause, and a dark brow winged upwards. “Leverage...as it happens, that also has an access point here...in Deepground.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?!” the former Commander snapped, feeling slightly hysterical.

A smile...and this time, it was clearly sinister...but there was something soft behind it...something he disliked far more than the posturing or the flair.

“That computer Administration wants to confiscate” Thierry said quietly, stepping forward. “I wouldn’t do that.” When Genesis opened his mouth to retort, he shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips in a mocking request for silence. “I wouldn’t do it,” he repeated. “For...you see…”

“...Sephiroth’s consciousness is in it.”

 

* * *

**Thierry**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *my OCs are very unreliable informants. Just a little food for thought.
> 
> **R &R**


	11. Chapter 11

“I think you’ve finally cracked.”

Angeal’s voice did the same as he said this; forcing the pitch of it low across the dim, isolated space where he and his childhood friend were sitting. Aerith was a little to the left, and her face was pinched...tight. Her bearing bespoke of a terrible, vibrating sort of anxiety that only thickened the tension between the three of them. It was late at night...so late that it was past a rude hour and straight into purely offensive chronology. The booth in which the owner of the Buster Sword was sitting smelled of cheap alcohol and too many cigarettes. It was an old smell...familiar from his days a cadet but now the aroma wasn’t comforting or nostalgic. Instead, it was an ancient, bitter ache that refused to fade. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine the shapes of cadets he had trained sitting in the now-empty seats around them. Men who had perished in battle...ephemeral wraiths lounging on crushed velvet bumping elbows and swapping pub jokes.

Garters and Gorgons was-during the SOLDIER era-only discrete in the sense that no self-respecting civilian set foot in it.

It was, therefore, a regular hangout for young recruits in times that had passed. Staring at the empty, low-lit stage a few tiers below them, Angeal reflected that Genesis had stamped his presence here with a permanence that he had once admired. This was no longer, of course, the case. Gone were the redhead’s tabloid photos from behind the bar...gone was the hither-thither snapshot of him standing below blood-red curtains wearing fishnet stockings and a smear of carmine lipstick while the crowds roared their approval of his rendition of _’I’ve Gongaga for you, baby’_. The staff was ‘new’...if you could call a staff that had been working there for a decade ‘new’...but they certainly weren’t the young...upbeat and slightly sketchy management that had once run the place like a cross between a brothel, a bar, and a vaudeville act. No more was the tacky jukebox in the corner; they’d replaced it with a high-end, state of the art sound system that was currently playing what appeared to be classical music.

Someone had wanted the old scene to disappear.

Staring at his empty mug of coffee, Angeal sadly wondered if it was for the best. He couldn’t definitively say so, because he had fond memories of the place in its heyday. Now, of course, it was just another high dollar lounge for the private and elite...what little of elitism was left, anyway. If he looked closely...if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head, he could see the scuff marks on a table where Genesis had once danced a particularly lewd tango with a member of the Nurse Corps. If he remembered correctly...both of them had worn heels. There was the bar, of course, where he’d spent too many nights halfway to tears with mirth...laughing at whatever his fellow recruits and his childhood friend could think up next. There used to be tiki lights by the door every Thursday; when the girls came down from Medical and decided the men needed to be put in their place. Genesis used to practically fall over his feet to snatch up Apple, who forever treated him with a fond but fierce sort of tolerance wrapped up in leather garters and a riding crop.

Good days and good memories...gone.

Now of course, their place there was different...but it didn’t change the tight feeling in his chest...the sense of loss...of the fact that all of it, every bit of it was still hamstrung by the insipid pall of a tyrannical regime. Sephiroth had never come there...of course he hadn’t. By his memory, the General had never bothered to get into ‘the scene’ as some would call it. Angeal was fairly sure now that he hadn’t been allowed to, and he was angry at himself for being so blind to how much the younger man’s hands were tied. While they had been living under the illusion of battle-saturated glory and good nights, Shinra’s pride and joy was alone in an apartment...maybe staring out at the city lights and wondering what it was like to be free.

Just the idea of it made him cold inside.

There was the tinkling noise of shattered glass...a harsh bark and a drunken, watery yelp. The three of them observed as the bouncer dragged a barely-lucid customer to the door...dodged a punch that would have went wide anyway and then threw the hapless, nameless individual out onto the street. Suppressing a sigh, Angeal closed his eyes. That wouldn’t have happened either...before. If someone got too drunk and tried to start a brawl, somebody would have gone along with it. There’d have been a bar fight...nothing anyone would have held against anyone else...just good sportsmanship and alcohol and needing to let off some steam. If worse came to worse, there’d been a room in the back they used to throw people in to sober up...nobody got curbed back then...it just wasn’t done.

 _”Tempus fugit”_ Genesis said darkly...watching as the bouncer returned to his post by the door.

“You’re displacing” Aerith said sharply, earning herself a dour look from her brother. “You _are_ ” she insisted, leaning back and pushing her hair away from her face with one hand. “We all know we’re not here to talk about how things have changed.”

“It’s fair though” Angeal grunted. When his protegee’s fiance looked at him sternly, he shrugged. “It’s different...not a bad different, but not a good different.” Clearing his throat, he forced himself to focus. “I still think you’ve cracked” he said sternly to Genesis. “A week ago you were talking about going to the Sleeping Forest...now you want to look into a computer system we _barely_ understand for Sephiroth’s consciousness.”

Truthfully, he was surprised Genesis was in on it at all.

He wasn’t unhappy about it, but he acknowledged the risks that came with hope...and he didn’t like the idea that this could hurt his childhood friend more than he’d already been hurt. As much as the older man wanted to write himself off as a lost cause, he refused to believe it. Genesis was a survivor, even if he had to kick and scream and beat his fists into the ground to do it...he survived. Angeal was also aware that the terminology of _’survival’_ , didn’t necessarily connote any positive archetypes when it came to existence. You could survive and be completely miserable...but he knew that wishing for more was setting the bar awfully high. A member of the staff came ‘round to offer more coffee and he pushed his cup towards her with a weary smile and a quiet ‘thank you’ as the other two did the same. When she’d gone, the former Commander reached for the sugar and dolled it out accordingly. Hope on Genesis’ part was, of course, a kind of engagement. Trying to get the redhead to join them for casual events that didn’t involve work or Saorise was like pulling teeth. And he was hard on Genesis...he wasn’t ignoring that. Sometimes he could be entirely unfair, and entirely too expectant of him...but it was only because he believed in him.

That didn’t change the fact that the entire situation was beyond suspicious.

Thierry was an anomaly...an alarming anomaly, if he were entirely honest with himself. Angeal hadn’t met him, and Genesis hadn’t seen him after their apparently very-late night discussion in the bowles of Deepground. If the redhead hadn’t been able to recount the discussion exactly as it had been down to the very last detail to Aerith like he had to him, he might have written it off as an exhaustion-related hallucination. Verville wasn’t in HQ, and a query sent up to Tseng gave light to the fact that the man wasn’t even registered in the employee database. _How_ he had gotten past hundreds of surveillance cameras and several dozen security guards was beyond all of them. The man was, veritably...in the wind. This, at least, gave Genesis enough pause to admit that the whole thing was weird...but he still wanted to check up on it. If he looked at it rationally, Angeal could admit it was fair...because it covered all necessary bases and would dismiss any suspicion they had of being on the wrong path.

They could...of course...find something that led them in the wrong direction.

Angeal had been a SOLDIER for a long time...long enough to understand that operations like Deepground functioned on many, many tiers with thousands of complexities. If Hojo had put Sephiroth’s consciousness into a computer...there was a chance he’d reprogrammed him to fit his own means. Which meant if they _did_ find him...it might not be Sephiroth at all. It might have his mannerisms and some of his opinions...but there was a dark flipside to it...a _very dark_ one. He didn’t know how Genesis would manage that...or how to deal with that in a manner that was ethical. They couldn’t just chip some random person and let Sephiroth inhabit their body. Nobody was going to die so that someone else could live. There was also the argument of whether an artificial consciousness was a consciousness at all...whether it functioned on the same level as a human mind. Sephiroth had never been particularly emphatic, but he had feelings, emotions, and the ability to correlate himself with others. There was no guarantee that an echo of his psyche would do the same.

“I think we should check it out” Genesis said stubbornly.

“I think if we do, and we find something...we’ll be caught in a situation where we won’t be able to make a decision” Aerith said quietly, fiddling with her mug. “I’ve _felt_ Sephiroth in the Lifestream...I don’t feel him anywhere else. That means that whatever- _if_ there’s anything in that computer, it’s not _alive_. Not in the way we are.” A shiver that was barely perceptible, but apparent all the same. “That scares me” she admitted in a hushed voice. “That scares me more than I want to admit.”

“I don’t know anything about A.I.” Angeal supplied evenly. “None of us really do. But it stands to reason that an A.I. could be altered just like any other computer program by someone with the knowledge and the skillset to do it.” He paused before continuing, keeping his gaze on Genesis as he spoke. “That means that the Sephiroth...or the _semblance_ of Sephiroth in that computer...may not know you like your Sephiroth knew you. He won’t remember that you have a child, and if he does, the concept of it will be skewed...distorted to fit whatever Hojo wants it to be.” His hands shook slightly as he set down his coffee cup. “Which, consequently, means that...whatever we find…” he trailed off, unable to continue.

“...We’ll have to destroy it” Genesis said flatly. “I know that already, ‘Geal. That’s the only reason I’m doing this in the first place.”

Well, _that_ changed things.

“I don’t understand” Angeal said after a moment’s pause.

The older man snorted and slumped back in his seat. For a moment...he looked weary in a manner that was a little frightening.

“I’m not stupid” he said hoarsly. “I _know_ that whatever’s on that computer isn’t Seph. But I can’t...I can’t let it exist just to cause pain somewhere else...to someone else.”

“I thought you wanted to retrieve him” Aerith protested, looking incredulous.

“Thierry’s a smooth talker” Genesis acceded bitterly. “But he’s not a fucking superstar when it comes to foresight. He didn’t look at Hollander, for example...or at least I really doubt he did.” When Angeal and Aerith continued to look at him like he was speaking in tongues, he shook his head. “Hollander approached me with an offer.” Pushing the sugar spoon about for a moment, the redhead paused and then brought his palm down flat on the table...knuckles pale with suppressed tension. “He wanted to make copies of me...physical copies. An army, to be exact, to overthrow Shinra.” A smirk. “Though, of course, to Hollander it was just about overthrowing his competition...like he could ever measure up to Hojo. It’s not a far stretch to assume that Hojo was a step ahead of Hollander and figured out how to digitize human cognition. I wouldn’t put it past him anyway...and it’s not hard to imagine.” The older man’s expression turned dark. “And why would I let _Hojo_ use Sephiroth, like Hollander used me?”

“What did Hollander have that made him think he could get you to do that in the first place?” Aerith asked, her voice hushed.

“He threatened Angeal, and Sephiroth” Genesis muttered. “I confronted him about my family history...and I guess that’s my fault, because that’s what put us in jeopardy in the first place. He knew _we_ knew, so I offered him my DNA to make his ‘army’, but I told him I didn’t want to know what happened to it.” A shrug. “Still don’t know, actually. I’m assuming nothing ever came of it, and if it did, the only person who could tell us is dead.”

“So you’re telling us there could be copies of you running around that we don’t know about” Angeal said flatly.

“I think we’d all know if several sexy gingers tried to overthrow Shinra before I did” his friend snorted. “I don’t think Hollander got very far with it all, honestly. And if he did, then his work would have been at Hojo’s disposal when he d- _shit_...”

 _”Now_ you see the problem” Angeal snapped. “And I don’t know _why_ you didn’t feel this necessary to tell anyone about beforehand. If Hollander thought he could make copies of you, then Hojo could _certainly_ make copies of Sephiroth.” He nearly stood, so great was his agitation. Instead, he chose to drink his coffee aggressively. “This is...the level of _risk_ this carries Genesis-! Why the he-”

“- _Because I was fucking dying_ ” Genesis interrupted, a thin tremor in his voice. “We shipped out to Wutai soon after that, and you know what came in its wake. I didn’t think about it, and yeah, it was stupid. I didn’t even look at it that way...and then Hollander was dead and I just wanted to _bury_ it ...everything went to hell so fast.”

Aerith was strangely silent.

“Okay” Angeal breathed...as much to himself as to anyone. “Fine...fair enough, I know that a lot of things happened during that time. But we have to alert Administration to this-”

“-How cognizant would you say that a copy is?” Aerith cut in.

Both men fumbled with their focus for a moment before Genesis seemed to clearly grasp what she was asking.

“Uh...dumb. Hollander said they were quite dumb, like toddlers. I’d have basically had to raise them first if I took him up on his offer.”

“I can’t exactly imagine a dumb Sephiroth” Angeal blurted out, and Genesis’ lips twitched momentarily. “Actually, a Sephiroth without the control that our Sephiroth had due to training is three times as much of a risk.”

“So they’re cognitive anomalies” Aerith murmured. “No wonder I can’t feel them...they’re blank slates...empty until you fill them up.” She shifted. “And even then...they’re just replications of something that already exists in the Lifestream...I’d never be able to see them.”

“We’re assuming that they exist at all” Genesis hedged. “This is all theory, y’know.”

 “But if they do...we could...use one of them to retrieve Sephiroth’s consciousness from the Lifestream” Aerith replied, a thin veil of excitement coloring her voice. “It’s almost perfect, really.”

“It’s not” Genesis snapped. “We don’t know what that would do to him, what that would do to the copy. We don’t even know if the copies are as physically sound as our original selves.” When Aerith looked downtrodden the redhead’s expression softened. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate how you’re thinking” he said gently. “But there’s too many ‘if’s. The first and foremost ‘if’ being that we don’t know if they’re even real.”

“There’s also the fact that if they are real they’re a massive risk to national security” Angeal said darkly. “I still think Administration needs to know about this.”

“And what about Thierry?” Aerith pressed, folding her hands together. “He’s trying to lead us into a trap. That means he’s a threat, shouldn’t our priority be to find him?”

“What we _need_ to do is wipe whatever’s on that computer” Genesis muttered.

“You’re not wiping anything” Angeal said quickly. When the older man looked affronted, he shook his head. “Genesis...even if it’s not Sephiroth...I can’t let you do that to yourself. I’m not saying you’re weak” he added hastily when the redhead appeared to take offense. “But...please...Genesis. You’ve shouldered enough...let me take care of this...please. I _want_ to do it.”

He knew it was a long shot.

Even if Genesis could dissociate the A.I. from his deceased lover, there was still the element of connection. Angeal wasn’t ignoring the fact that his childhood friend felt responsible for Sephiroth’s death. He also knew that by deleting whatever was on the computer, the redhead was trying to move forward without blinders on. Thierry had put them in a terrible position, but he’d also given them more information regarding the overall situation than they’d had in years. Maybe it was unwilling education, but he wasn’t ignoring the fact that this was a step forward when it came to figuring out exactly what was going on with the Lifestream, with Hojo, and with the former General. It was impossible to disregard the significance of what they’d learned and it’s correlation with what they were trying to do. He didn’t know if anything would come from it, but it might help them trace Hojo, and it might-at the very least-provide closure.

“Fine.” Genesis’ voice was-once again-brittle, but the resolve behind his eyes was firm. “You do that, but Aerith’s right, Thierry tried leading us down a black hole. Something needs to be done about him.” A grimace. “Which is easier said than done, of course. Considering that no one’s seen him since I spoke with him.”

“There’s also the element of the Other” Aerith returned. “The death materia you talked about” she supplied when Genesis raised a questioning eyebrow. “We need to consider the fact that Hojo may not be the only threat we have to contend with. Sorcery is your field, but you can’t fight sorcery if you don’t know where it’s coming from...and this isn’t tied to the Lifestream...not exactly. It feels like the direct opposite of anything vital.”

“There was never enough to go on in the first place” Genesis replied, his eyes narrowed with remembered pain. “And it’s what got this whole mess rolling in the first place. _That_ actually does scare the shit out of me, because it’s coming full circle, and one of us is already dead.”

“You think it’s connected?” Angeal queried, feeling somewhat skeptical.

Genesis looked grim.

“I’m not ruling it out. I can’t...not when it involves Necromancy. If Sephiroth and I set into motion something laid before us… like a constructed wyrd...then that means we’re still working towards a means to an end.”

A smile...one that was twisted by grief, rage, and despair.

“That doesn’t mean when I figure it out, I’m not going to make them _suffer_ for it.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** This is kind of just a snapshot so we know where we're going. I'm still taking that two week break.  
> Any plot inconsistencies/things I've forgotten, please let me know. This feels a bit...hasty? And I know this is a _massive_ time skip, but I could not, and I mean could not cover this much time otherwise. So I hope-in consideration of all of this-that the summation of events that have gone on is satisfactory.


End file.
